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tsyt 



PRISONERS’ YEARS 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


NOMAD SONGS 


PRISONERS’ 


YEARS 


BY 

I. CLARKE 

» 


**. . . HOW LONG ARE LOVERS* WEEKS, 
Do you think, Robin, when they are asunder. 
Are they not prisoners’ years ? ” 

Ben Jonson 


NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER ’s MAGAZINE 


1912 




Copyright, 1912, by Benziger Brothers 


tUf 

SCU320336 


/ 


FOR MOTHER 








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p 















CONTENTS 


PAGE 

BOOK I r . > . . v M r . 9 

. . who when he had found one pearl of great 
price, went his way, and sold all that he had 
and bought it.” 


BOOK II ...... 217 

u C’^tait un petit 6tre si tranquille, si timide et 
si silencieux. . . . C’etait un pauvre petit 
etre myst^rieux, comme tout le monde.” 

Pelldas et Mtlisande 


BOOK III .... M M 331 

“ And ruin’d love, when it is built anew, 

Grows fairer than at first.” 


Sonnet CXIX 



PRISONERS’ YEARS 

BOOK I 


“• . . who when he had found one pearl of great price went 
his way, and sold all that he had and bought it.’* 


CHAPTER I 


ady Beaufoy sat facing her son-in-law in 



JL J the big drawing-room of her house in 
Curzon Street. The room ran from back to 
front. The rose-shaded electric lamps found 
response in the silken covers of the gilt-legged 
chairs, the pink Empire carpet, the delicate 
old French furniture, the harmonious arrange- 
ment of which delighted Axel Maltravers, who 
considered himself a connoisseur. 

They were having tea, and she watched him 
covertly, from time to time, with interest in 
his complete absorption, mingled with a kind 
of envy at his capacity. 

He was a stout bald man of forty, and in 


10 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


spite of these disadvantages looked less than 
his years, for he had the round fat face, the 
impression of budding intelligence, which is 
commonly associated with a young and healthy 
baby. His baldness — which he deplored re- 
gretfully as a tragedy — seemed, too, to be less 
that of a person who had lost his hair than that 
of one who had not as yet begun to grow it. 
There was a suggestion, above the ears, of a 
peculiarly infantile flaxen down. His eyes 
were large, very blue, very wide open; his ex- 
pression was like a baby’s, at once astute, in- 
quiring and noncomprehending. In spite of 
his insatiable curiosity, which often annoyed 
her, Lady Beaufoy preferred him to her other 
son-in-law, James Bryden; she always said 
that he was more friendly and less formal. 
During the winter months he would often 
come in about tea-time, regale her with the 
latest gossip, and so pass the time when his 
wife Sophy had gone out on one of her inter- 
minable rounds of paying visits, or, as more 
often happened, was playing bridge at her 
club. 

This afternoon Lady Beaufoy had a griev- 
ance, and she had welcomed Axel rather more 
warmly than usual on that account; she was 
sure that he would lend a willing ear to the 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


11 


recital thereof, despite his apparent absorp- 
tion in the muffins. 

“You see what I feel about it is this,” said 
Lady Beaufoy in an aggrieved tone; “there is 
nothing — nothing in the world to be said 
against Felix Scaife. He is exactly the kind 
of husband one would have chosen for Evodia. 
But I feel that she would have acted in pre- 
cisely the same manner if he had been en- 
tirely ineligible. She would have become en- 
gaged to him without consulting me or any 
one else. I never dreamed she would behave 
like that. She has lived with me for two 
years, and we have always been on the best 
of terms; her conduct has been perfectly ir- 
reproachable, and she has always seemed so — 
well, not meek — but submissive — so eager to 
consult one’s wishes.” 

Maltravers took another piece of muffin 
and said: “It is a long worm that has no 
turning !” 

Lady Beaufoy looked at him in shocked 
and, for the moment, speechless surprise. 

“You cannot mean to say that I have trod- 
den on Evodia?” she said. 

Maltravers finished the muffin, took another 
piece, and said silkily: “Your attitude to- 
wards her has always been beyond praise. 


PRISONERS' YEARS 


12 

You have sheltered the orphan — is there not a 
special merit attached to that work?” 

She wanted to say: “Then what did you 
mean?” But she was a little afraid of Axel. 
He was a barrister of extraordinary resource. 
Even Sophy treated him with caution — and he 
had cured her of so many bad habits ! 

She drank some tea, and Axel, looking quite 
unperturbed by this brief passage of arms, con- 
tinued to eat muffins with greater rapidity 
than before. 

Then she returned to her original grievance, 
hoping that she would succeed in winning his 
sympathy. 

“I assure you, it gave me quite a shock! 
The way she came and told me about it! 
Just as if she were coming to tell me she was 
going to lunch out, and ask if she could have 
the carriage! Not the least interested or ex- 
cited or . . . agitated!” 

“I have observed Evodia on many oc- 
casions,” said Maltravers; “but I should never 
expect her to display emotion under any cir- 
cumstances. Still I like occasionally to have 
that kind of person to cross-examine. So 
. . . baffling! . . . And she accepted Scaife 
out of hand?” 

It was to put himself in possession of all the 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


15 


details of Evodia’s engagement to Felix Scaife 
that he had come to visit his mother-in-law to- 
day. He had always been fond of Lady 
Beaufoy; she had been such a willing and use- 
ful assistant when he had presented himself 
as a suitor for her younger daughter Sophy. 

Besides, the engagement had taken them all 
completely by surprise; even Sophy, who had 
a special flair concerning such things, had 
evinced considerable astonishment when she 
heard of it. 

“Oh, dear, no!” replied Lady Beaufoy; “she 
kept him waiting a week, I believe, and told 
him she did not wish to see him in the interval. 
At the end of the week he came here, and she 
gave him her answer. I was out and I did not 
see her until the next morning. She came to 
my room just after the cook!” 

Maltravers could not repress a smile. 

“I am sure the cook was the more agitated 
of the two,” he said lightly; “she is too much 
of an artist not to have the artistic tempera- 
ment.” 

“I feel that it might have been so — so un- 
speakable,” she said ; for she had in truth been 
really upset by this sudden manifestation on 
the part of her niece of so much secrecy and 
independence, 


14 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“Scaife is far too eligible to be unspeakable. 
He reminds me of the Feudal System — of con- 
sols and all kinds of dull, solid things, things 
that never give you either anxiety or excite- 
ment.” 

“Very useful qualities for a husband to 
possess!” said Lady Beaufoy dryly; “and, as 
I have already said, there is not a single fault 
one can find in Felix. He is handsome and 
rich — there is a beautiful property, you know, 
Axel. And he is devoted to Evodia!” 

“He would bore me to tears in a week,” said 
Axel. “Does Evodia like him?” 

“I am quite sure she wouldn’t marry any 
one she didn’t like.” 

“To keep him waiting a week argues a lack 
of enthusiasm,” said Axel. “By the way, 
Herton was a candidate, wasn’t he?” 

“Lord Herton has always admired her sing- 
ing,” said Lady Beaufoy. 

“A most interesting situation,” commended 
Axel; “and she will fit in at Mollingmere as 
if she were made for the place. By the way, 
the old man is still alive, isn’t he? A regular 
old Tartar, I believe. I am afraid I have 
finished the muffins! I hope you had some? 
I forgot to notice.” 

“I never eat them,” said Lady Beaufoy. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


15 


She gave him a look which he understood 
perfectly, and with malice he desired immedi- 
ately to acquaint her with the fact. 

“Yes — I am getting deplorably fat ! Sophy 
tells me so — as often as she dares. But Hom- 
burg — I have faith in Homburg for reducing 
one to ‘measures fair.’ ” 

“Where is Sophy? Why did she not come 
with you to-day? I thought she would be sure 
to want to hear all about Evodia!” 

“Sophy and Milly are both playing bridge 
at their absurd club. She is coming later — 
she said she would pick me up in the car. 
When is the wedding to be?” 

“Directly after Easter. They don’t want 
to wait. And it suits me too — I want to go 
abroad in May.” 

“You will enjoy your recovered freedom,” 
said Axel. “Has Sir Henry seen her yet?” 

“Oh, yes! didn’t I tell you? She is down 
at Mollingmere now. They went the day be- 
fore yesterday. Sir Henry is making a great 
fuss with her. He likes her singing, and 
wants her to have her portrait painted.” 

“His views on art are mid-Victorian — a bad 
period,” commented Axel. “Only one of these 
modern men could possibly do her justice.” 
He paused, as if reflecting upon the beauty 


16 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


of Evodia Essex. “He has always wanted 
Felix to marry and give hostages to fortune; 
he never liked Keith, the younger grandson. 
How old is Felix?” 

“He was at Oxford with Jim,” said Lady 
Beaufoy; “but they didn’t know each other. 
Milly says he was a year or two senior to 
Jim.” 

At that moment some rather shrill laughter 
was heard on the stairs. The door was flung 
open, and Lady Beaufoy’s two daughters ef- 
fected a rather noisy entrance. They were 
strangely alike, and both spoke on the same 
abrupt staccato note. 

Sophy ran up to her husband, bestowed a 
perfunctory kiss upon the smooth top of his 
head, cried shrilly, “I hope I haven’t disturbed 
your hair, darling!” — and then proceeded to 
embrace her mother with some vigor. Lady 
Beaufoy emerged from this onslaught looking 
a little cross and disheveled. She disliked any 
demonstration of affection. 

Milly, who, under the suave dominion of 
James Bryden, had acquired a slightly more 
frigid demeanor, greeted her relations with 
suitable coldness, and expressed her desire for 
tea. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 17 

Then Sophy burst forth with a torrent of 
rapidly uttered questions. 

“What’s all this about Eve? Is she really 
going to marry Felix Scaife? I didn’t even 
know she knew him ! What a lot we all missed 
by spending last week at Brighton! Why 
didn’t you tell us? Why have Milly and I 
been kept in the dark?” 

“We have all been kept in the dark,” said 
Lady Beaufoy, with bitterness. “Evodia did 
not wish any one to know till it was all settled. 
I hadn’t the least idea he wished to marry her. 
After she had accepted him she told me about 
it, and he went down to Mollingmere to tell 
his grandfather. Now they are both down 
there. Sir Henry is quite pleased. I believe 
Felix is afraid of the old man.” 

“I have heard that Sir Henry has the tem- 
per of a fiend,” said Axel, “so it is fortunate 
he approves. The estates are not entailed.” 

“Is there much money?” inquired Milly. 

“A good deal. But Keith had all the moth- 
er’s money when he came of age, so Felix is 
still dependent on his grandfather. A very 
uncomfortable position for the elder brother! 
Still, Sir Henry is generous, and, of course, 
he cannot live forever!” 


18 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“They will be very well off eventually, I 
suppose?” inquired Sophy. 

“Land isn’t what it was,” said Lady Beau- 
foy; “still, there will be quite enough.” 

Milly looked disconsolately at the empty 
muffin dish. “I’m so hungry,” said she plain- 
tively. “Have you had many people here 
this afternoon?” 

“Nobody but Axel,” said Lady Beaufoy. 

Axel smiled. 

“Mea culpa ” he said; “but the cook does 
them so beautifully.” 

Milly flushed a little. She had made the 
remark on purpose, and Axel knew that she 
had done so, and had at once translated it 
for the benefit of those present. He always 
made her appear in the wrong. How detest- 
able he was ! How could Sophy have married 
such a creature? 

Axel disliked his sister-in-law, and often 
wished that she and his wife were, in outward 
presentment at least, less alike. 

Both women possessed the same fair, rosy 
complexion, the same frank blue eyes, the 
same masses of glossy brown hair. They 
dressed often alike, and always to perfection. 
But there was something in Sophy’s face 
which Milly’s lacked, and which set her un- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


19 


deniable prettiness in a higher category to that 
of her elder sister. Axel believed it was due 
to the fact that Sophy was a woman of intel- 
ligence, while Milly was a fool. 

“It was very rude and ungrateful of Evodia 
not to tell you before!” said Milly severely. 
“It seems so” — she paused as if to try and find 
a word that should not be too condemnatory 
-“so— sly!” 

“I am sure Evodia didn’t mean to be rude 
or ungrateful or sly,” said Sophy; “she never 
has talked about things in the way we do! I 
sometimes think it is because she was an only 
child, and her mother was always so ill that 
she had to keep things from her for fear of 
worrying her.” 

Axel smiled indulgently upon his wife, and 
thought irrelevantly that her blue hat was 
very becoming. “Dear Sophy is so char- 
itable,” he said, mockingly. He almost said 
w instead of r; certainly he slurred over the 
latter consonant in a manner so childish that 
it accentuated his babyish appearance and 
lent additional malice to some of his more 
venomous speeches. “And it is so hard — is it 
not ? — to find appropriate excuses for Evodia’s 
conduct!” 

“Well, you must be thankful to think 


20 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

she will so soon be off your hands!” said 
Milly. 

Axel rose* “Come, Sophy,” he said, “we 
are dining out, and you are eating such enor- 
mous quantities of cake!” He bade farewell 
to Lady Beaufoy and Mrs. Bryden. “I hope 
soon to have the opportunity of congratulating 
both Scaife and Evodia. They will be quite 
admirably suited to each other. A charming 
place, Mollingmere.” 


CHAPTER II 


T he engagement of her orphan niece, 
Evodia Essex, to Felix Scaife had been 
a source of considerable satisfaction to Lady 
Beaufoy, in spite of the fact that it had taken 
her so completely by surprise and her wishes 
on the subject had not been consulted. 

It had been rather a trial to her to take up 
the duties of chaperon once more, especially 
at a moment when she believed that she was 
about to abandon the role forever, having 
just succeeded in marrying her younger 
daughter, Sophy. Three or four seasons had 
sufficed to establish both her daughters with- 
out any undue difficulty, and she had already 
begun to look forward to a time when she 
could come and go as she would ; to accept this 
invitation which pleased her, and reject that 
which was likely to bore; to winter always in 
the South, and at all times to claim the in- 
alienable right — so dear a privilege as years ad- 
vance — to remain within her four walls when 

she felt tired or rheumatic. She had arrived 
21 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


n 

at that time of life when she was a little weary 
of the perpetual intercourse with her fellow- 
creatures — that inevitable concomitant of a 
large income and an extensive visiting list ; it 
would be a relief, she felt, to enjoy the luxury 
of solitude, for which she had hitherto had so 
little opportunity. 

She was a tall, commanding-looking woman 
of about fifty-five; although inclined to em- 
bonpoint, she was still well preserved and emi- 
nently good-looking. She had a deep but not 
unpleasant voice and a high sense of her own 
importance, together with its almost inevitable 
accompaniment — a deficient sense of humor. 

Milly and Sophy had both worshiped their 
mother, who, indeed, had always been a most 
indulgent parent. They had been most care- 
fully trained and educated, and were both 
pretty, frivolous women, who enjoyed life, 
took a great interest in their clothes, and were 
devoted to their respective husbands and chil- 
dren. They had left the large and pleasant 
house in Curzon Street for other smaller 
though equally pleasant houses at no great 
distance from their old home. 

Lady Beaufoy had breathed a sigh of relief 
when she beheld Sophy depart upon her honey- 
moon with Axel Maltravers. She had been 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


23 


rather a long time making up her mind to 
marry him, and once or twice her mother had 
actually feared that the affair might come to 
an untimely end. Wisely she held her peace, 
for, after all, she told herself, Sophy’s happi- 
ness must be the first consideration. She had 
always had a very real if disguised preference 
for her younger daughter. Still, she approved 
of Axel, hoped that Sophy would not throw 
away the chance of marrying so rich and clever 
a man, though secretly sympathizing with her 
upon his increasing stoutness and decreasing 
locks. He was also nearly twenty years her 
senior, for Sophy was very young, and per- 
haps might still wish to indulge in dreams of 
Romance and the Fairy Prince. One should 
treat dreams tenderly; at best they are the 
fragile toys of youth, swift to perish. The 
wedding, however, took place; the marriage 
had turned out very happily, and Lady Beau- 
foy had every reason to congratulate herself. 
She had just, as we have seen, drawn up a plan 
of life with a due regard to her own future 
comfort and tranquillity, when a black-edged 
letter reached her announcing the death of her 
brother’s widow, after a very protracted ill- 
ness, and acquainting her with the fact that the 
said widow’s only child, Evodia, was to be con- 


24 * 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


signed to her guardianship, at least until she 
came of age. 

“She must be about nineteen,” said Lady 
Beaufoy, regarding the letter with dismay. 
She had only seen Evodia once, and that was 
about ten years ago, when Clement Essex died 
and she had journeyed down to a remote 
Dorsetshire village for the funeral. The child 
must have been then between eight and nine, 
and the impression she had left upon her aunt’s 
memory was that of a slim, rather elfin, fragile 
person, tall for her age, and possessing im- 
mense dark brown eyes and delicate, small fea- 
tures. 

Ever since her father’s death Evodia had 
lived with her mother in the old house on the 
Dorsetshire coast, with its fine views of the sea, 
its distant glimpse of Portland, that looked 
like a gray shadow looming between sea and 
sky, its wooded slopes and quiet fields, where 
she had acquired, during her uncompanioned 
childhood, a love of solitude that she always 
retained in after life. Mrs. Essex had been a 
complete invalid since her husband’s death, 
and Evodia, who adored her, never left her for 
that reason. 

Lady Beaufoy had put down the black- 
edged letter, with amazement at the immense 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


25 


perversity of fate in frustrating apparently 
innocent human desires and commonplace 
plans. Milly, being the only daughter avail- 
able at the time, was immediately sent for, and 
learned the news of this impending disaster 
with appropriate exclamations of sympathy. 
“What a bore for you, Mamma! And you 
have always hated girls ! How stupid of Aunt 
Augusta not to make some one else her 
guardian! I can’t imagine what you will 
do with her. She is sure to be dull and rather 
dowdy, coming from that miserable little vil- 
lage where she has lived all her life I” 

“She was a pretty little child,” said Lady 
Beaufoy, and her face brightened. “Perhaps 
she will marry soon. She hasn’t much money 
— about two hundred a year — that is because 
Clement and his wife both bought annuities. 
They had been married a certain time and had 
not any children, so they perpetrated that act 
of criminal and selfish folly. Then two years 
later this little girl came. I wonder what a 
girl can be like, brought up only by my poor 
sister-in-law? Such a hopeless creature! She 
had only one emotion in her life, and that was 
her dog-like devotion to poor Clement. When 
he died everything about her seemed to die too, 
except that wretched frail body of hers.” 


26 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


With Milly’s help she sat down and wrote 
a fairly sympathetic letter to Evodia, offering 
her a home for the present, and begging her 
to come to Curzon Street as soon as she could ; 
she was too sensible, indeed, to bemoan her de- 
feated plans, and, indeed there was nothing 
to be gained by delay. 

A few weeks later Evodia appeared at her 
aunt’s house, and Lady Beaufoy regarded her 
with no little mental perturbation. 

Undoubtedly she resembled her father, for 
whom Lady Beaufoy had always had a very 
real affection. But Clement had always been 
a queer, visionary man, a student by nature, 
a poet by repute. And his dark eyes seemed 
to be looking into hers now across a decade of 
silence as Evodia came into the room. She 
was very tall, and perhaps too slender; her 
figure was what the French call gracile; her 
hair and eyes were very dark; her skin was 
pale as a magnolia bloom. There was no 
trace of resemblance to her two cousins, and 
Lady Beaufoy felt instinctively that she dif- 
fered from them as much in the interior things 
of the mind and soul as she did in the exterior 
presentment she displayed. She was con- 
vinced that the things which had satisfied and 
contented her own daughters would not satisfy 


PRISONERS’ YEARS M 

nor content Evodia. They had never been in 
any sense complex, and Evodia produced an 
immediate and agitating impression of com- 
plexity upon Lady Beaufoy. 

“But she is beautiful — that mates every- 
thing so much easier,” thought Lady Beaufoy, 
who had dreaded the burden which a dull, plain 
girl might prove. She wondered if there had 
been any one in the Dorsetshire village to 
recognize this arresting loveliness. Or had 
there been nothing in her life but the suffer- 
ings of poor Augusta? 

Evodia slipped very quietly into her place in 
her aunt’s house. Her coming scarcely dis- 
turbed the ripples upon that sea of well-organ- 
ized comfort; she exhibited no desire to inter- 
fere with Lady Beaufoy’s plans; as far as she 
was concerned her aunt could nurse her 
rheumatic twinges at home. 

Her tranquillity and restfulness were rather 
pleasant than otherwise after the restlessness 
and eager energy of Milly and Sophy, who had 
always been “on the go” all day long as well as 
most of the night. Lady Beaufoy felt that 
Evodia would never acquire those ways, and 
congratulated herself upon the fact. After the 
period of mourning for her mother she would. 


28 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


no doubt, have to be taken out ; in the meantime 
they could travel together, visiting those agree- 
able places on the Continent, where a judicious 
course of baths, waters, and diet could im- 
pede the too rapid development of insidious 
gout. 

Very soon, however, after Evodia’s first ap- 
pearance at Court her beauty and her exquisite 
voice began to attract attention. During the 
days of her mourning Lady Beaufoy"*had de- 
voted much time to the cultivation of her voice, 
which from the first she had, with her usual 
worldly wisdom, placed in the category of de- 
sirable assets, to be exploited accordingly. 
She was rewarded for her trouble for she soon 
became aware that Evodia was invited, for 
this very reason, to houses whither Milly and 
Sophy had seldom or never gone. She was a 
success, and she remained quite unconscious 
of it and unspoiled, even when her appearance 
at an amateur entertainment at the Court 
theater in the height of the season evoked for 
her singing a furore of applause. It was at 
that time that Lord Herton began to show 
her somewhat marked attentions, and Lady 
Beaufoy was half afraid that Evodia had re- 
fused him, since he shortly afterwards departed 
on one of his long wanderings to some un- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


29 


pronounceable place, generally alluded to 
among his friends as South Something or 
Other. 

“That cold manner of hers is so very un- 
girlish,” Lady Beaufoy once informed Axel in 
a moment of expansion. 

“Don’t try and alter it,” he urged; “it goes 
so well with that kind of statuesque appear- 
ance.” 

Even after two years she still regarded 
Evodia’s future from an entirely matrimonial 
standpoint. By this time she had grown 
really fond of her niece, and felt that she 
would regret parting with her — even to Lord 
Herton. But never for a single second had 
she connected Evodia’s future in any way with 
Felix Scaife. She really knew little of their 
first meeting, which had taken place in the 
autumn, when they were both staying at a 
country house, where Evodia was to sing at 
a village concert. He had taken her in to 
dinner, had been attracted by her very unusual- 
ness, as well as by her delicate beauty. After- 
wards, at the concert — to which he had gone 
reluctantly — her voice, so carefully trained un- 
der the far-seeing rule of her aunt, had com- 
pleted the conquest of Felix Scaife. He 
went back to Mollingmere the next day, be- 


30 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


wildered and a little unhappy. It was a pass- 
ing fancy, he told himself. But her eyes — the 
sound of her voice — haunted him. He went 
to town and called on Lady Beaufoy, whom he 
knew slightly; in her youth she had known 
both his grandfather and his father. She in- 
vited him to dinner; once or twice he ac- 
companied them to the play. He lent Evodia 
books, obviously enjoying her singing; but 
then so many others had done precisely these 
things that Lady Beaufoy beheld no portent. 
Nor did she discern that his coming was other- 
wise than a matter of complete unimportance 
to her niece. 

And then had come Evodia’s sudden an- 
nouncement of her engagement, one day in 
early March, about four months after their 
first meeting. As we have seen, she had not 
taken Lady Beaufoy into her confidence; she 
had managed the affair, so to speak, single- 
handed, and thus had endowed her aunt with 
a grievance which, when everything else was 
of so satisfactory a nature, could only be re- 
garded in the light of a luxury. 

Felix was his grandfather’s heir. Not only 
would he inherit the title, but the property, 
now no longer entailed, and also the very large 
private fortune which Sir Henry could leave 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


31 


wherever he chose. Felix had a younger 
brother, Keith, who was less of a favorite with 
his grandfather, to whom, indeed, he had on 
several occasions given considerable anxiety. 
The prospects of Felix, from a worldly point 
of view, were excellent. Lady Beaufoy found 
him an agreeable man, and had been heard to 
say that he was very good-looking. 

She had asked Evodia no questions; there 
was something in her manner — so reserved, so 
grave — that baffled her. Some people hide 
joy in the same way as they would hide a 
wound, lest any exterior happening should 
touch it to its hurt. And in her dark eyes, as 
she lifted them, Lady Beaufoy read something 
that was not only joy, but that very deep 
happiness and content that springs from a cor- 
responding peace within the soul. One may 
read such joy sometimes in the faces of 
religious. With worldly things it had noth- 
ing to do. Neither for wealth, nor position, 
nor anything of this kind that he could offer 
her was Evodia going to marry Felix Scaife. 
It was this conviction that had given Lady 
Beaufoy such a sense of uneasiness. She felt 
that, however poor and ineligible Felix might 
have been, Evodia would have consented to 
marry him just the same, admitting; no one 


32 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

to her confidence till the matter was settled 
definitely. 

It had shown her a side of the girl’s char- 
acter which she had sometimes suspected, but 
had never fully realized. It had belonged 
also to Clement — this baffling reticence, this 
silence which never suggested stupidity, this 
hidden but fierce determination of purpose. 
For Clement had gone through life heart-whole 
until he had met Augusta on board ship going 
to America, and had made up his mind to 
marry her from that moment. And she had 
given him the happiness he had looked for. 
Nothing could have been more perfect than 
their union. His death had broken her heart. 
Her child had never given her any compensa- 
tion for that lost happiness of his so beloved 
presence, as it would have done to many wom- 
en. She had literally turned her face to the 
wall, refusing sympathy and comfort, and 
Lady Beaufoy had often condemned her for 
this foolishness. She had summed her up in 
the following manner: “Augusta was always 
a poor creature!” She rejoiced that Evodia 
was so little like her mother in appearance and 
character. 

Had Evodia been one of her own daughters 
she would probably have said: “You know 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


S3 


this man so slightly — I suppose you are quite 
sure you care for him enough?” But she felt 
the impossibility of making any such speech. 
She dimly guessed that what Augusta had 
been to Clement so was Felix to Clement’s 
daughter. She could only therefore rejoice 
that Evodia’s choice should have fallen upon 
such a singularly eligible person and one so 
well endowed with this world’s goods, possess- 
ing, too, a pleasing appearance and agreeable 
manner. Indeed, she was half disposed to 
envy Evodia for having achieved a greater suc- 
cess than either of her cousins. Neither Axel 
Maltravers nor James Bryden had had so 
much to bestow upon their respective wives as 
Felix would ultimately have to bestow upon 
Evodia. The one crumpled rose-leaf seemed 
to lie in the personality of Sir Henry, who 
was still alive to keep his grandson out of his 
inheritance. Still, he was nearly eighty, and, 
as she had told her daughters, he could not 
live forever. She had once visited Molling- 
mere, and still could remember its immemorial 
beauty. It was an ancient place, tucked away 
somewhere in a fold of the Sussex downs, the 
house a very perfect example of Tudor archi- 
tecture, and the park and woods and pasture- 
lands all that could be desired. And, as Axel 


34 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


had said, Evodia would fit into it perfectly. 
She seemed to demand a costly, ancient and 
exquisite setting, as some pictures do, whereas 
the modern prettiness of Milly and Sophy 
would have seemed quite out of place. “But 
they would always have had a motor ready to 
take them away directly they felt bored,” 
mused Lady Beaufoy. 


CHAPTER III 


4 4 T cannot imagine what Evodia can pos- 
A sibly see in Felix,” said Mrs. Bryden. 
“From all accounts she appears to like him.” 

She put down her cup with an emphatic 
movement. Sophy regarded her attentively. 

“No doubt she saw a number of things,” she 
observed with some dryness — “with Molling- 
mere in the background. Not even a remote 
background, since they are to go and live there. 
I don’t suppose the old man will interfere with 
them much, and, from all I hear, Felix knows 
how to manage him. It is a dream of a place, 
Milly. Axel and I motored past it from 
Brighton last summer. Evodia is in luck — I 
hope she realizes it!” 

Lady Beaufoy had been listening to this con- 
versation between her two daughters without 
proffering any opinion. She was getting a lit- 
tle tired of hearing Evodia’s engagement dis- 
cussed from every imaginable standpoint. 
Their own little world was full of it; some 
people wrote congratulating Lady Beaufoy 
as if she were being relieved of a burden, 

35 


36 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


others condoled with her as if she were losing 
the last support of her declining years; she 
thought both these points of view exceedingly 
tiresome. She had done her duty, and she had 
not complained, and she was glad the marriage 
promised so well. 

“Sir Henry has written me quite a charming 
letter,” she said; “he says he could not have 
chosen better for Felix himself.” 

“Old-fashioned people always like Eve,” 
said Sophy; “she isn’t at all modern. She 
looks like some great lady of the Middle Ages. 
But Axel calls her the Lady of Shalott!” 

“Jim was at Oxford with both the Scaifes,” 
said Milly. “He didn’t know Felix, but he 
knew the other one, Keith; he was very wild 
and extravagant and gave a lot of trouble. 
He is in the Diplomatic Service now, and has 
just married a girl Sir Henry can’t bear.” 

Lady Beaufoy wondered how her daughters 
managed to pick up so much information about 
people. 

“When are they coming back?” asked 
Sophy. “Will she want any help with her 
clothes, Mamma? She has such different 
taste from ours. But her things always suit 
her, although she is never at all smart! Are 
the family jewels worth having?” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


37 


“I believe they are. Felix has given her a 
pearl necklace that belonged to his mother, and, 
of course, her ring is superb. There are quan- 
tities of other things, I believe, but she didn’t 
tell me much.” 

“It all sounds most satisfactory,” said Milly, 
with a sigh; “you must be quite thankful. 
Mamma, that she didn’t take it into her head 
to marry one of those terrible long-haired mu- 
sicians she used to meet at the Hudsons’ last 
spring, when she sang there so much! It was 
really most unsafe to let her go there so often 
— considering her temperament!” 

“I did not perceive that there was any dan- 
ger in Evodia’s temperament in those days,” 
said Lady Beaufoy. 

“Oh, but she always was so very like poor, 
dear Uncle Clement!” said Sophy. 

Lady Beaufoy was a little surprised to find 
that Sophy had quite independently arrived 
so nearly at her own conclusion. But per- 
haps the idea had been assimilated from Axel, 
an astute observer, who was always meta- 
phorically pinning his fellow-creatures upon a 
board, and then examining them the better to 
affix an appropriate label. 

It was uncomfortable to know such people 
— to be with them much; one could only won- 


38 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


der in what manner one had personally 
emerged from the scrutiny. Lady Beaufoy 
liked Axel, and he amused her, but she had 
consigned Sophy to his keeping with not a lit- 
tle fear. 

“Sylvia has a cold,” said Sophy, whose mind 
invariably drifted to the contemplation of the 
solitary occupant of the nursery. 

“How delicate she seems,” said Milly; “I 
am thankful to say Beau is hardly ever 
ill!” 

Their babies were about the same age, and 
there was much innocent rivalry between them. 
James Beaufoy Bryden weighed more than 
did his cousin, Sylvia Sophia Maltravers, but 
Sylvia, when both were measured, defeated 
him by half an inch. Milly was almost re- 
duced to tears at this discovery. They both 
considered that Lady Beaufoy was insuffi- 
ciently interested in their offspring. She used 
to say: “You forget, my dears, I have had 
babies of my own, and I cannot say I ever 
found them in the least interesting till they 
began to talk!” 

Milly had hoped that Sophy would display 
some envy on account of her baby proving a 
boy, but Sophy only said: “We wanted a lit- 
tle girl. Axel hates boys” ; and the conversa- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


tion ended unsatisfactorily. Sylvia was a 
beautiful little thing, and Beau was a plain, 
fat baby, with a round bullet head, but, if 
any one chanced to admire Sylvia in her hear- 
ing, Milly would say: “Beau, of course, looks 
such a thorough boy!” Thus the balance was 
always sustained, where one failed the other 
triumphed. It bored Lady Beaufoy to hear 
about the babies, so she returned to the sub- 
ject of her niece’s trousseau. 

“She can get some of her things from that 
Irish place. And the blouses from that 
woman of yours, Milly — the one who has the 
French patterns. I’ve ordered a good many 
things in Paris. I am going to give her her 
wedding dress and most of her lace and furs. 
I’ve liked her companionship, and I expect I 
shall miss her when she’s gone.” 

Sophy said abruptly: “Of course you’ll 
miss her. She’ll go right out of all our lives. 
And it seems strange to think that — that 
Felix Scaife of all people. . . . He is so very 
quiet, one pictures him a little dull and stodgy . 
Perhaps he is more amusing when you get to 
know him!” 

She had not seen him above half a dozen 
times, and then she had felt rather strongly 
that he did not care much for her and her 


40 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


sister. It was an unexpressed hostility to- 
wards the type rather than any personal feel- 
ing for the individual. She felt that he could 
never become quite one of their intimate fam- 
ily party. But then Evodia had never on her 
side quite identified herself with their interests. 
Probably she would pass, as Sophy had sug- 
gested, completely out of their lives, except 
for a few days’ visit to each other’s houses, 
exchanged during the year. It was a relief 
to her to be able to stigmatize Felix as a little 
dull and stodgy; it helped to destroy the im- 
pression he had given her that he rather de- 
spised them for their frivolity, their idle pleas- 
ure-seeking existence, and that their gay 
chatter bored him beyond words. 

But it was a good match for Evodia; it 
would reflect well upon the family; it would 
show that they had done their duty by her; 
and Sophy, who was not at all of a jealous 
disposition, was quite generous enough to re- 
joice for Evodia’s own sake that her lot was 
henceforth to be cast in pleasant places. It 
was all very unexpected, and it occurred to 
Sophy to question whether Evodia had not 
really displayed an unimagined touch of world- 
liness in accepting a man with whom her ac- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


41 


quaintance had been so short, and apparently 
slight, and one for whom she had never evinced 
the least partiality. Had she in truth known 
her own value — set a price on the things to 
which she had always manifested such indiffer- 
ence? In her old quiet life had she dreamed 
of what life should hold for her once she were 
free? — had she gathered slowly the intention 
that it should hold a deeper, fuller meaning? 
Axel indeed thought so. It was a case, he af- 
firmed, of still waters. He refused to believe 
that Evodia had fallen in love with Felix 
Scaife. This man had been the first to offer 
her the things she wished for, and she had 
accepted him. But Axel did not commonly 
give any one credit for what has been called 
a good motive. His scrutiny was always for- 
tified by a very strong desire to discover a flaw 
in the tiling he was examining. 

“We shall understand Evodia better when 
we have seen her with Felix,” said Sophy, as 
she rose to go. She turned to her mother. 
“She isn’t at all sentimental about him, is 
she?” she inquired. 

“Oh, dear, no! — not at all!” Lady Beaufoy 
hastened to assure her. 

But she remembered, as she spoke, the look 


42 PRISONERS* YEARS 

of passive and contented happiness shining in 
Evodia’s eyes when she came to tell her the 
news of her engagement. 

“But I am sure she is very happy,” she 
added quietly. 


CHAPTER IVi 

T he March evening was rapidly closing in ; 

the twilight, luminous and colored, still 
retained something of the definite purple be- 
queathed by a sunset of unusual brilliance. 
The sky, clear of cloud, showed the faint cres- 
cent of a young moon, a slim, silver sickle visi- 
ble through the bare interlaced branches of the 
elms. 

The long, bold outline of the Sussex downs 
— great bare, unwooded heights — curved 
darkly against the sky to the south. Like 
solemn sentinels they seemed to watch above 
the quiet valley where, enshrouded in centuries 
of peace and tranquillity, the village of Wear- 
dean was situated. A mile or two almost due 
westward of the village stood Mollingmere, 
and the house, built on the lower spur of a hill, 
faced the south. The park, with its splendid 
trees, stretched out to meet the long, low pas- 
ture-land, broken by clumps of elm and oak, 
and hornbeam, which ran to the very foot of 
the downs. Northward lay the immense silent 

43 


44 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


woods, which now in their deep purple mantle 
seemed yet to hint at a suggestion of spring, 
imminent yet reluctant. To the right of the 
house could be discerned a line of palest silver, 
where the river widened into a beautiful lake, 
reflecting woods and sky, and the tall, quiv- 
ering brown reeds with a curious accuracy of 
detail. 

The Scaifes were a Sussex family, who, for 
so many generations, had contemplated amid 
their own changing fortunes the immutable 
and changeless aspect of Chanctonbury Ring 
— seen across a valley, green and smiling with 
fair pasture-land — that they had come to re- 
gard, almost with pity, those whose lots were 
cast in other places than within sight of this 
typically English, and, as such perhaps, unique 
panorama. 

The house was old, but it had from time to 
time been considerably added to. Part of it 
had been burnt down early in the nineteenth 
century by a reckless Scaife, who was a friend 
of the Prince Regent, and squandered much of 
the money accumulated during a long minority 
a few months after he came of age. He had 
set fire to it himself in a fit of drunken curiosity 
— so it was said — to see how it would look 
burning. The wild youth danced on the lawn 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


45 


with maudlin glee as he watched the glowing 
flames. An old servant at last laid strong 
hands upon the young master and bore him off 
to a place of safety, into which he locked him 
securely, while he himself returned to assist in 
extinguishing the flames and mitigating the 
disaster. One wing was burnt down, but, for- 
tunately, it had been built rather recently and 
had lacked beauty, therefore the loss from an 
artistic point of view was not irreparable. The 
boy lost his life in the battle of Waterloo after 
earning for himself a reputation for great gal- 
lantry, thereby expunging the less creditable 
record of his youth. 

As a rule, though the Scaifes had often been 
unusual and somewhat eccentric, they were not 
bad. There were exceptions, of course, an un- 
expected strain of hot blood cropping up at 
intervals. It had been said of them, that what 
one generation saved the next squandered; 
they were either misers or spendthrifts. For 
the most part they were comely in appearance, 
the men dark and strong, often of great height ; 
the women slender, and more blonde in color- 
ing. Types and features could be seen faith- 
fully repeated in the melancholy portraits that 
hung in the long picture gallery at Molling- 
mere, and in the marble effigies that sur- 


46 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


mounted the old tombs in the church — a Nor- 
man building of great beauty. 

Sir Henry Scaife, the present owner, was 
now close upon eighty years of age, a tyrant 
of the old school, conservative, benevolent in 
his own fashion, hating the new order of things, 
and completely out of sympathy with the habits 
and ways of the century into which his years 
had been prolonged. He beheld in all inno- 
vations a sowing of the wind, which, he held, 
must inevitably reap its disastrous harvest of 
the whirlwind. Many quite harmless luxuries 
came under the ban of his disapproval. When 
his younger grandson, Keith, came of age and 
inherited his mother’s fortune, he immediately 
bought a motor-car, and returned with it in 
great pride to Mollingmere. Sir Henry’s 
wrath knew no bounds. The detestable thing 
— qualified by an immense array of unparlia- 
mentary adjectives — should never, he de- 
clared, enter his gates. Keith had to keep it 
a couple of miles away at a farm-house until 
his grandfather modified his views sufficiently 
to allow Felix to have one for the purpose of 
visiting the more distant parts of the property. 
Sir Henry would have liked to keep Molling- 
mere exactly as it had been in the days of 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


47 


his own youth, when a hard, penurious com- 
fort prevailed. With infinite tact Felix had 
managed to modernize the house a little, had 
added heating apparatus, bathrooms, and elec- 
tric light, but not, it must be confessed, with- 
out a considerable struggle. “My father and 
grandfather didn’t have these things, and what 
was good enough for them is good enough for 
me. But they were not mollycoddles — they 
could do their ten hours in the saddle and drink 
their three bottles of port after dinner like 
men!” he used to declare. 

He was a widower, and his only child, a son, 
had died abroad, leaving two little boys, Felix 
and Keith. Within a year the boys’ mother 
died, too, and the children were brought to 
Mollingmere, which had ever since been their 
home. From the first Sir Henry had taken 
an overwhelming fancy to the elder boy, a 
bright, handsome child of six, bearing a re- 
markable resemblance to his dead father. 
Keith, the younger one, resembled his mother, 
and was fair, slight, and delicate-looking. 
Even at that early age, for he was two years 
younger than his brother, he was a wild, in- 
tractable, wholly undisciplined child. The 
idol of his dead mother, he was passionately 
resentful, both of Sir Henry’s attempts to sub- 


48 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


due him as he himself had been subdued in 
the days of his youth, and of his efforts to re- 
create the atmosphere of his own childhood, 
with its remorseless discipline of blows. The 
passionate rebelliousness of the child seemed 
to increase in proportion to the severity of the 
treatment he received. His old nurse was 
called foolish and indulgent, and Sir Henry 
sent her away before she had been in the house 
twenty-four hours. Keith believed himself to 
have fallen into the hands of a fierce and strong 
enemy, from whom even Felix could not save 
him. Keith had been whipped almost daily; 
he had been shut up in a dark room for hours 
at a time; he had subsisted for a week on bread 
and water. No one ever remonstrated with 
Sir Henry — indeed, there was no one but the 
helpless little elder brother to do so, and he, 
timid and reserved, was rendered speechless 
with fear and grief. Now after many years 
the feud between Keith and his grandfather 
was little more than tacitly concealed ; the bit- 
ter hatred of the child had grown into the 
contemptuous hostility of the man who took 
pleasure in provoking and annoying Sir Henry 
on every possible occasion. At Oxford he sur- 
passed Felix, won this scholarship and that 
prize. His debts, however, roused his grand- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


49 


father to a fresh access of fury ; he refused al- 
together to pay them, and Keith’s inheritance 
had to be dipped into to meet his creditors. 
His latest offense had been his marriage, a few 
months ago, to a lady unknown to his grand- 
father, whose advice he had not consulted in 
the matter. The girl was a “nobody,” accord- 
ing to Sir Henry, and he had only just arrived 
at the point of consenting to receive her. She 
had, he declared, confirmed all his worst fears ; 
he considered her vulgar and second-rate, and 
she would certainly retard Keith’s advance- 
ment in the Diplomatic Service. Many peo- 
ple, however, preferred Keith to his quiet elder 
brother. He was brilliant, clever, a little un- 
principled, but he was charming, agreeable, 
and handsome. His wife, Genevieve, had 
nothing in Sir Henry’s eyes to recommend 
her. She was without fortune or desirable 
connections, and he denied that she was pretty. 
Her extravagance almost matched her hus- 
band’s, and Sir Henry was fond of proph- 
esying their inevitable and not far distant 
ruin. 

Evodia Essex was staying at Mollingmere 
for the first time since her engagement, and 
Genevieve had also been invited for a strictly 
defined and limited period. Keith was in the 


50 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


Balkan States, and she was to join him in a 
few weeks. 

“I want you to be specially nice to Gene- 
vieve for Keith’s sake,” Felix told Evodia on 
the day of her arrival; “they are neither of 
them very popular with my grandfather just 
now, and he has just heard of a fresh lot of 
debts, which he refuses to pay. Keith has had 
so many expenses lately that I am afraid he 
will be hard hit if he doesn’t get some help out 
of him.” 

Evodia did not see her future sister-in-law 
till just before dinner on the evening of her 
arrival. Genevieve trailed into the drawing- 
room, wearing a strange orange-colored tea- 
gown of fantastic shape, with many jewels of 
the Liberty kind suspended about her small 
and rather fragile person. She had a quantity 
of reddish hair, large appealing blue eyes, and 
a petulant, babyish mouth, which was at once 
weak and obstinate. Most of her life had 
been spent in second-rate foreign hotels, with a 
somewhat disreputable father, who belonged 
to a distant branch of a well-known English 
family who refused to recognize either him or 
his daughter. Felix, whose reserved manner 
became almost exaggerated when in his own 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


51 


home, was studiously polite to her. But she 
belonged to a world so utterly different in its 
tone and its ideals from the world of Molling- 
mere that it was almost impossible to bring 
her into line. Sir Henry was delighted with 
Evodia. He gave her to understand that she 
was to be the favored daughter-in-law, the 
wife of the heir, of the favorite grandson. 
Felix had never given him an hour’s anxiety. 
From a child he had always been perfectly 
reasonable and submissive. His engagement 
was all that his grandfather could desire; he 
did not even regret Evodia’s lack of fortune. 
She would, he felt, uphold all the desirable 
traditions of Mollingmere; her portrait could 
hang fitly beside those of the fair and beautiful 
women of the old house. Not so Genevieve, 
with her modern prettiness of a type Sir 
Henry did not in the least understand. Her 
untidy hair, her collarless frocks, her bizarre, 
worthless jewels, her powdered face, made her 
seem, in his eyes, scarcely respectable, so unused 
was he to modern ways and modes. “I hate 
to see women flop about in tea-gowns,” he com- 
plained bitterly to Felix. “Why doesn’t 
Keith send for her? I wonder what they will 
think of her in Belgrade!” And he derived 


52 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


a certain savage pleasure at the thought that 
Keith’s day of retribution could not be far 
distant. 

Evodia had been staying at Mollingmere 
nearly a week, and she and F elix were walking 
up and down on the terrace, which ran the 
whole length of the southern side of the house 
and as far as the sunk fence beyond. The 
March evening was very still; for the time of 
year it was mild ; the daffodils growing thickly 
on a south border looked like a miniature army 
of soldiers wearing pale golden helmets. 
The days had been very happy ones for 
Evodia. If she had not been very successful 
in making friends with Genevieve Scaife it 
had not been her fault, for Mrs. Keith disliked 
her own sex, was frankly bored by them, and 
considered Evodia “prim and English,” so was 
scarcely encouraging. But for the most part 
of the day Evodia had been out-of-doors, go- 
ing for long motor-rides with Felix, exploring 
the length and breadth of his future property 
and making the acquaintance of many of the 
tenants. But always afterwards the remem- 
brance of this particular evening was freighted 
with significance to both of them. 

For does not happiness, elusive figure, too 
often sound her own death-knell? The touch 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


53 


of her is a foreboding; she holds in her hands 
the seeds of fear and pain. 

“O Freude, habe Acht, 

Sprich leise, dass nicht der Schmerz erwacht . . .” 1 

To Evodia love had come as to a heart free, 
untried, untouched, unaccustomed ; she had 
thus to give in return the warm, eager, and wel- 
coming love of a child. Her life had been 
so secluded, at first by circumstances, then by 
the habit inculcated ineffaceably by those cir- 
cumstances. She had never wasted the words 
of love before love came on any half-god. So 
that the whole present and future now spelt 
Felix. There could be no joy for her apart 
from this one who loved her — who held her fate 
in his hands. She loved him — he must not yet 
know how much — with what joy, humble yet 
invincibly proud. 

Felix had been a little afraid of the impres- 
sion which his grandfather might produce upon 
her, with his harsh, rough, dogmatic views. 
One could see in him a type rapidly becoming 
extinct. Hard, narrow, intolerant, with in- 
violable principles founded too often upon un- 
fortunate and inherent prejudices, he seemed 
to make Mollingmere compare ill with the suave 

i O j oy beware, 

Speak low lest thou awaken pain . . . 


54 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


if worldly atmosphere of Lady Beaufoy’s 
house. The result of his training was evinced 
clearly in his grandsons — the elder displaying 
a submissive acquiescence, a belief in the right- 
ness of his views ; the younger, rebellion, open 
mutiny, darkened with actual hatred of him, 
and of nearly everything he upheld. 

Felix had sketched the situation briefly to 
Evodia. Their home must necessarily be at 
Mollingmere until the old man’s death. The 
dower-house was let on lease for a term of 
years, and there was no other domain availa- 
ble. Felix looked after everything, acted as 
his grandfather’s agent, managed the estate; 
it was quite out of the question for him to re- 
nounce these duties. “Can you face it — this 
living here in his life-time? I know it won’t 
be easy for either of us! We shall be under 
tutelage as it were. But he has been at his 
worst since Genevieve came! And you — you 
have been so used to tranquillity, independence 
— things I can’t promise you yet awhile. If 
you saw a real row between him and Keith 
you would think they were two madmen! 
But I’ll save you as much as I can!” 

All that day Sir Henry had been morose, 
gloomy, and irritable. At tea-time he had been 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


55 


almost rude to Genevieve over some trivial 
speech, contradicting her to her face. 

“Genevieve does try him,” said Evodia; 
“they belong to a different world — to a dif- 
ferent century. I don’t suppose he has ever 
seen the type before! There are hundreds of 
women in London exactly like her. I keep 
on thinking how well she would get on with 
Milly and Sophy and Axel!” 

It seemed indeed that Genevieve took a 
malicious pleasure in annoying her host. She 
invariably breakfasted in bed — always an in- 
dictable offense at Mollingmere, where pray- 
ers were said at half -past eight, a ceremony 
from which no one was ever excused, and dur- 
ing which Sir Henry assumed a tone by turns 
dictatorial and subservient to the Almighty. 
She strolled down about luncheon-time, hav- 
ing spent hours over her toilette; she refused 
with horror the great slices of roast-meat 
which Sir Henry put on her plate; she ate 
sweets most of the time because Keith had 
made her promise not to smoke cigarettes while 
she was at Mollingmere, where smoking was 
absolutely forbidden indoors. She had a toy- 
terrier, which she carried about under her arm ; 
it yapped at Sir Henry, who had always made 


56 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


a firm rule of “no dogs in the house.” This 
creature was a continual source of irritation 
and annoyance to him. 

“I know you will study him,” went on Felix, 
“he has always been very kind to me, but, of 
course, it has been a little hard on me that 
Keith should have our mother’s money directly 
he came of age while I still remain quite de- 
pendent upon my grandfather. But you — 
you will try and be happy here?” He looked 
at her with a kind of proud wistfulness. 
“And perhaps, without this, our happiness 
might have been too great — too complete!” 

He seemed to have read her very thoughts. 

“Do not be afraid — I shall be happy,” she 
said. 

The after-glow of the sunset still touched 
the hills to a delicate and luminous splendor, 
but the worn, gray facade of the old house was 
wrapped in shadow. They passed and re- 
passed the long line of windows, the finely- 
wrought iron gates that shut away a little 
courtyard which approached the huge entrance 
door of Mollingmere. These aspects were by 
now all quite familiar to Evodia. It was 
Felix’s home, soon also to be hers; indeed, it 
seemed in a sense already hers, as were those 
gray protecting downs, the shadowy purple 


PRISONERS' YEARS 


57 


elms, the sleepy rooks trying to settle down 
for the night, the level lawns, the wide green 
spaces of park and meadow-land, the silver 
shining mere. Suddenly she gave a little 
shiver. With swift apprehension in his tone 
Felix turned to her, and said: “Darling, 
what is it — are you cold? Or am I frighten- 
ing you too much? I was obliged to put all 
the disadvantages before you — I know it 
sounds horrid — but you have been here a week, 
and you must have seen — ” 

But she was not thinking of Sir Henry — 
how could he touch their happiness? It was 
rather of the pale Norns that she was dream- 
ing — fearing the swift and pitiless weaving of 
their strange webs. 

“It wasn’t that,” she assured him, slipping 
her hand in his with an almost childish instinct 
of seeking protection. “Only do you think 
people — other people — were once as happy 
here as we are now? People to whom sor- 
row came — and parting, and perhaps — 
shame?” 

“You are feeling the atmosphere of the old 
house,” he said quietly. “Do not let us be 
afraid of the future.” 

“These thoughts frighten me,” she said. 
“You see I have been so much alone, and I 


58 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


was happy and content. Oh, I am still 
happy!” she cried passionately, “but it is not 
a tranquil happiness. There is so much to fear 
now, when before there was nothing! And 
yet the joy is greater, too, than anything I 
could have imagined!” 

In spite of himself he shivered. It was as 
if something of her fear had communicated 
itself to him. 

“As long as we are together and love each 
other,” he said, “I do not think we need fear. 
Mercifully we have not to wait long before 
our marriage — we have not been asked to face 
separation. In six weeks now — even less — 
we shall be married, and then we can defy the 
fates!” 

She did not answer. His words, “In six 
weeks” seemed to throb across the evening 
air. Such a little time — and she would be 
Felix’s wife. They had passed some distance 
down the long avenue, and, in the half dark- 
ness, he drew her to him and kissed her. 
“Dear,” he said, with a strange tenderness, 
“I will make you happy. I should like you to 
be the happiest woman in the world. You do 
care — a little too?” 

The words came wistfully; in the falling 
dusk her face was scarcely visible, and it had 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


59 


seemed like ice to the touch of his lips. She 
came closer to him. “Care?” and the voice 
shook on a note that was half laughter, half a 
sob — “can’t you see that I love you, Felix? — 
that it is my fear of losing you that makes me 
speak like this?” 

Always he remembered those words of hers ; 
in after days he had but lean memories of her; 
this one stood out sharply, always accompanied 
by the soft sighing of the pine trees that were 
grouped along the avenue at Mollingmere. 
For those words, passionate and eager, he 
taught himself to make a hundred excuses for 
her: “It was I who failed . , . . She loved 
not me hut the man she thought I was . . . 
she didn't understand > . . . it was never her 
fault — never her fault in the slightest de- 
gree . . . 

But in that moment they had been but two 
souls crying out pitifully from that abyss of 
solitude and desolation in which all souls must 
necessarily stand ; seeing each other in the clear 
illumination that love has power to produce, 
groping blindly for human comfort and com- 
panionship. 

She turned away as soon as they came back 
to the iron gates and left him. “The good 
minute,” as Browning called it, had gone — 


60 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


come and gone in that swift moment of reve- 
lation. Felix could not have stirred to follow 
her; he realized her need of being alone. He 
did not even raise his eyes to watch her as she 
went. But he heard the sharp clang of the 
gates as they closed when she passed them, and 
the echo of her swift light feet as she crossed 
the paved courtyard. From the elms an owl 
hooted — the sound gave a sudden touch of 
desolation to the scene. In the west a long 
bar of somber purple clouds darkened the sky ; 
against it the great cedars lifted their boughs 
in stiff velvet silhouette. Oh — why had she 
been so sad — so, as it were, afraid? He felt 
that he could have protected her against a 
whole host of hostile human forces, almost as 
if he could have held her back, had it been nec- 
essary, from death itself ! 

For some time longer he paced the terrace 
alone, then he turned and went back slowly to 
the house. He was nearing the iron gates 
when he became aware of a figure advancing to- 
wards him, dimly touched by the faint illumi- 
nation from a lamp burning in a lower win- 
dow. The figure was one he could scarcely 
believe to be real; he was at first inclined to 
attribute it to the excited state of his imagina- 
tion. It was that of a man, tall, slightly made, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


61 


clad in the rough brown habit of a Franciscan 
friar. His cloak parted slightly, and Felix 
could see the white cord that encircled the 
habit beneath, and as he moved he could hear 
the jangle of his rosary. He wore sandals on 
his bare feet; they struck the gravel walk with 
a sharp, crunching sound. 


CHAPTER V 


T he friar moved a step forward, bowed 
gravely to Felix, who became aware of 
a pair of dark piercing eyes, somber and mel- 
ancholy, fixed steadfastly upon him, almost, as 
it seemed, with a recognized regard. 

“I lost my way on the downs,” he said, in a 
singularly musical and agreeable voice. “I 
wonder if you would kindly permit me to rest 
here ? I saw the light in the distance and came 
here — I do not feel as if I could go any 
further — ” 

“Which way did you come?” said Felix, 
awkwardly. 

“From those cottages beyond Crossdean — 
four or five miles above Wear dean on the 
downs. I am on my way back to the friary 
at Cossoway. I spent last night with a dying 
man at Crossdean — I waited with him till he 
died.” 

For a moment Felix hesitated. A single 
consideration occupied his mind, and that was 
his grandfather’s bitter, irreconcilable hatred 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


63 


towards the Church of which this man was a 
member — of his equally violent hatred of all 
monks and nuns and religious orders. But 
as he looked up a certain pity came over him. 
The man was indeed spent; his face in the 
faint light was ghastly pale ; the shadows round 
his mouth were tinged with blue ; he looked ill 
and weary. 

Seeing Felix’s hesitation, he said quickly: 
“Shelter for the night is all I ask. Is there 
no shed?” — and he nodded towards the long 
group of outlying buildings that ran at right 
angles from the house. 

“Please come in,” said Felix heartily; “this 
is my grandfather’s house, not mine — but I 
am sure he would wish me to ask you in.” 

Side by side they walked across the court- 
yard and into the narrow, paved, covered way 
that led to the front door. 

Above the door of solid oak, black with age 
and richly carven, there hung an old iron lan- 
tern, in which electric light was now used. Its 
rays had illuminated the comings and goings of 
the Scaifes through long centuries, but for more 
than three hundred years they had certainly 
never fallen upon such a visitor — not since the 
days when Sir Roger de Scaife had been be- 
headed on Tower Hill for his faith, and the 


64 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


property had passed to a younger branch of 
the family, who possessed consciences more ac- 
commodating, more ready to subscribe to the 
new order of things. 

Both men stood for a moment face to face, 
and for the first time Felix’s face was fully re- 
vealed to the priest. 

“Scaife?” he said, and held out his hand; 
“I am surely not mistaken? And just now 
I was almost certain that I knew your voice! 
We were together at Magdalen. My name in 
the world was Henry Vernon — now Father 
Antony of the Order of Friars Minor.” 

Felix looked up into the thin, dark, ascetic 
face. The features were sharply cut, the 
bones showed through the sallow, pale skin; 
the dark eyes, wistful and beautiful, had the 
watching, expectant look of the contemplative. 

The younger man felt instinctively all that 
there was in that gaze of Father Antony’s — a 
yearning over the souls of men, powerful and 
yet detached, a look that, in spite of himself, he 
felt to hold some mesmeric quality, expressing 
more than the thin set lips would ever venture 
to utter. 

Many English prejudices — surely the most 
strange things to be found so inalienably in 
a people boasting eternally of its freedom, tol- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


65 


erance, and liberality — had been deeply in- 
stilled into Felix’s mind from his earliest 
youth. And foremost, always, there had been 
sown the well-nigh ineradicable seeds of a great 
mistrust, an abiding hatred, directed against 
that enduring, invincible, unconquered body 
— the Catholic Church. 

With his grandfather it was more than a 
mere prejudice. It was a passion, almost an 
obsession, an incurable hatred; to mention it 
in his presence was to put a match to the fire. 
He possessed the intolerance often found in 
the mind of the Protestant, who will extol him- 
self as without bigotry, will see good in Bud- 
dhism, Brahminism, Theosophy, Mahomme- 
danism, but bring him face to face with the 
Catholic Church and his vaunted liberality is 
a dead thing. 

In the hearts of its adherents there is even 
rejoicing at this fulfillment of the divinely- 
uttered prophecy: “Ye shall he hated hy all 
men for My Marne's Sake." 

Felix took the proffered hand a little stiffly. 
“ I remember you quite well. Father Antony. 
I am very glad to see you again.” 

He opened the heavy door and led the priest 
into the great square hall, with its fine tapes- 


06 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


tries and armor, and thence into his own little 
study. With many misgivings he left him 
while he went to disclose the situation to Sir 
Henry. 

As he entered his grandfather’s study he 
seemed, for an instant, to re-create something 
of the atmosphere of his childhood, where he 
had suffered none the less terribly because vi- 
cariously, through the treatment meted out un- 
sparingly to his little brother. Something, 
indeed, of the old fear of Sir Henry possessed 
him as he went up to him. The old man sat 
near the fire reading the Times by the light 
of a green-shaded lamp, which threw into 
strong relief the massive leonine head, with 
its thick mass of white hair that contrasted 
strangely with the ruddy, florid coloring of his 
face. To look at, he was the typical English 
squire of the old school, one who had ridden 
hard and well in his young days, could still do 
his day’s shooting afoot, and was indifferent 
to, even ignorant of, the hysterical ravings of 
the halfpenny press. 

From the days of his childhood, an unhappy 
period, Felix knew that the temper of the man 
had not changed one whit. The least mani- 
festation of opposition sufficed to arouse that 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


67 

uncontrollable temper and loosen the flow of 
bitter, unforgettable words. 

Perhaps it would have been better if he had 
explained the matter briefly to the priest and 
given him shelter in one of the outhouses. But 
his look of illness had made the suggestion seem 
hard-hearted, and was it not absurd to deny 
a man food and a bed just because he hap- 
pened to profess another faith — had had the 
misfortune to have been brought up in a belief 
in an absolute mediaeval tradition? 

“A man has come asking us to put him up 
for the night,” began Felix ; “he was at Oxford 
with me. He lost his way between Weardean 
and — and Cossoway, and he can’t get back 
there to-night.” 

“Who is he?” Sir Henry looked up from 
the Times . Something in Felix’s hesitating 
manner aroused his suspicions. 

“A man called Vernon — Henry Vernon,” 
said Felix; “he seemed ill and tired.” 

“What is he doing here?” Sir Henry’s 
voice was irritable. 

“He has been visiting a dying man at Cross- 
dean. He is a priest — a Franciscan from the 
friary at Cossoway — he is called Father An- 
tony.” 


68 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


The murder was out, and, in spite of his 
steadily controlled voice, Felix had grown a 
shade paler. 

“A priestr said Sir Henry, rendered almost 
speechless by this intelligence. 

Felix was silent. 

“You must tell him to go away at once! 
Where is he? I’ll tell him myself! I’ll tell 
him what I think of him and all his kind !” 

And the old man flung down the Times , rose 
from his seat, and his ruddy face became purple 
from fury. 

“Don’t try and stop me, sir! How dare 
you let him in?” 

Felix stood with his back to the closed door. 

“I should not have let him in,” he said 
quietly, “if he had not looked so ill. He only 
asked for shelter in a shed. Surely you won’t 
mind having him here for the night? You 
needn’t see him, and he can sleep in Keith’s 
old room next to mine !” 

“Mind having him here for the night? I 
should mind very much indeed. This isn’t 
your house yet, thank God, and, as long as I’m 
alive, you’ll please respect my wishes. I’ve 
never yet allowed a priest to darken my doors, 
and if you had only had the common polite- 
ness to come and consult me I should have 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


69 


told you so! You had no business to let him 
in! Where is he? I’ll soon get rid of him!” 

“It is getting late,” said Felix quietly; “if 
Evodia were not here I would have the car out 
and drive him to Cossoway. He can’t walk.” 

“You’d no business to let him in at all. He 
shall not stay in the house another moment! 
As for your driving him home, I absolutely 
forbid you to do any such thing! Let me tell 
you I won’t stand this kind of thing from you ! 
I’ve had enough to put up with from Keith 
and that horrible wife of his! I won’t have 
this deli berate rebellion from you — this going 
against my wishes ! Let me see him! I’ll tell 
him what I think of him for poking his nose 
into an honest man’s house !” 

Felix put out his hand as if to restrain his 
grandfather. “I am very sorry to have dis- 
pleased you,” he said quietly; “I felt I could 
not refuse to let him in. I was at the gate and 
he came up and spoke to me. He belongs to 
the Vernons of Cawthorpe — they have always 
been Catholics. It is his misfortune — not his 
fault. Please do not ask me to send him away 
now. And — please don’t see him,” he added, 
with a note of entreaty in his voice. 

Sir Henry, like all persons of a bullying 
temperament, was especially sensitive to ridi- 


70 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


cule. The man was a Vernon, and He still 
retained, among other passionately conserva- 
tive prejudices, a respect for the ancient and 
titled families of England. To send away a 
priest with ignominy was easy, to send away a 
Vernon of Cawthorpe a more difficult and deli- 
cate matter. Exhausted with his outburst of 
rage he returned to his seat by the fire. No — 
it must not be said of him that he had kicked 
a Vernon of Cawthorpe out of his house. 
Felix must manage the affair himself. 

“He’ll be getting round you,” he said, 
gruffly. 

Felix smiled; the victory had been after all 
a comparatively easy one. “I’ve often met 
Catholics before,” he said; “there were several 
with me at Oxford. One was a very knowl- 
edgeable man — a clever astronomer — he be- 
came, I believe, a Jesuit.” 

“Well, don’t ask me to see him, that’s all!” 
he said. “And get rid of him as soon as you 
can in the morning. He can have Keith’s old 
room, and tell Mrs. Markham to send him up 
some dinner. And mind — you are not to talk 
to him ! I won’t have you talking and discuss- 
ing things with him!” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Felix, gravely; “it 
is very kind of you to let him stay.” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


71 


“It’s a pity he didn’t go to the Watson’s. 
That silly little Mrs. Watson would have been 
only too delighted to have him — she has been 
making such a fool of herself over that ridicu- 
lous ritualistic parson at Wearcross. Thank 
God this living is in our gift, Felix. I wouldn’t 
have anything of that kind here for all the 
world. Vestments and candles and all the rest 
of the rubbish. What was the Reformation 
for, if it wasn’t to put a stop to things of that 
kind — to get rid of the errors of Rome, and 
establish a decent Protestant religion in this 
country?” 

Felix went out of the room victorious, but 
a little jarred. He did not like to knock up, 
so to speak, against very strong prejudices. 
Life should be, if possible, a suave, agreeable 
thing, but Sir Henry was not of the kind that 
can compromise where it does not approve ; he 
would display open hostility, even when it was 
a question of mere difference of opinion. 
Felix preferred to seek harmony, to make life 
beautiful, smooth, and delicate. It grieved 
him to think that after their marriage, he must 
perforce surround Evodia with this unsympa- 
thetic atmosphere. 

He looked to her to make dinner that night 
pass off as smoothly as possible ; she could talk 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


n 

charmingly in that cold, slow, reposeful way 
of hers, normally so free from emotion; he had 
noticed that it often tranquilized and soothed 
his grandfather. With her help the evening, 
which promised so unpropitiously, might pass 
without another ebullition of fury or further 
tirade against religious orders. 

But first he must take Father Antony to 
his room. He went across the hall and entered 
the little room which for years had been his 
own den. The priest was half -sitting, half- 
lying in a very exhausted fashion in a chair by 
the table; his head was bowed in his hands. 
He stirred as Felix approached and looked 
up. His face was extraordinarily pale, and 
its thinness seemed to hint at privation as well 
as exhaustion. Felix regarded him atten- 
tively. He could not help feeling interested 
in this man, whose lot was cast in lines so 
strangely unlike his own. How thin he was — 
how sharply the bones of the face showed 
through that deathly, parchment-like skin. 
He reminded Felix of an ancient fresco of St. 
Francis he had seen in Italy. The brow was 
one of peculiar serenity and peace; the closed 
lips also seemed to denote a rare sweetness of 
disposition, an equable charity. 

Rousing himself with an effort he stood up. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 73 

“Forgive me — I was falling asleep,” he said 
quickly. 

“I suppose you were up very late last 
night?” said Felix. 

“I did not go to bed at all,” said the priest; 
“you see the man did not die until eleven 
o’clock this morning.” 

“You would like to come to your room,” said 
Felix, “your dinner shall be sent up to you.” 

He led the way into the oldest part of the 
house, where he had always from childhood 
had the same room. No one else slept in that 
part of the house, and Keith, on his brief visits, 
had long ceased to occupy his old room. Here 
it was that Father Antony could be assidu- 
ously guarded from a chance encounter with 
his host. The room was small, and rather bare 
and scantily furnished, and it was here that 
Felix had often and often consoled Keith, and 
hushed him to sleep in his own small arms. 
The room seemed always to remind him of the 
sobbing beaten child, crying himself to sleep. 

“The room shall be got ready for you at 
once,” said Felix; “in the meantime will you 
not rest on the couch in my dressing-room?” 

He led the priest into an adjoining apart- 
ment, and then, having ordered some food to 
be sent up to him, went to dress for dinner. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


n 

Sir Henry always insisted upon the most 
rigorous punctuality, and would be sure to 
visit any defection this evening with furious 
animadversions against the cause thereof. 

And a word with Evodia, alone if possible, 
before the others assembled had become a 
necessity. He dressed hastily, and hurried 
down to the drawing-room, where he found her 
reading. 

Briefly he explained the situation to her. 
“Vernon was at Magdalen with me,” he said; 
“I didn’t know him well — the Catholic under- 
graduates kept pretty much to themselves, 
but he was very clever and took prizes and 
scholarships. I lost sight of him completely, 
and didn’t know he had become a priest. I 
had to tell my grandfather, and, of course, 
he was very much annoyed. He can’t bear 
the Roman Catholic Church, and he hates the 
English Ritualists almost as much. Keith al- 
ways says he hopes Mr. Matheson will survive 
him for he is certain that species of parson 
has become extinct. Father Antony won’t 
appear — he has gone up to his room and he 
will have his dinner taken up to him. Do try 
and smooth things down at dinner. Gene- 
vieve seems to say things on purpose to an- 
noy my grandfather, and he is already awfully 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


75 


put out, as you can imagine!” He sighed. 
Never had the incessant bickering and quarrel- 
ing that took place at Mollingmere seemed 
at once so petty and so unbearable. “Oh, 
don’t think it is always like this. Eve!” he 
cried, taking her hand; “when we are alone 
together we are quite peaceful for weeks and 
weeks. And how can one guard against a 
wretched Franciscan losing his way on the 
downs and asking for shelter? Only I wish it 
had not happened now — while you are here!” 

He was almost boyishly distressed that 
Evodia should have seen things nearly at their 
worst at Mollingmere, instead of — as he had 
hoped — at their best. 

“I’ll do my best!” she said, smiling. She 
was so tranquil, and her very tranquillity 
soothed his jarred nerves. “I am so sorry 
you have had to banish him to his own room.” 
She herself would have treated Father 
Antony with the same courtesy she would 
have shown to any other guest; that had been 
part of the training she had received in the 
worldly atmosphere of her aunt’s house. 

“Oh, I’m glad he was so tired that I could 
suggest his going up at once ! He would 
have thought he had come into a den of bar- 
barians! It was the only safe course. You 


76 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


have no idea how extraordinarily strong my 
grandfather’s prejudices are on many points. 
You see he was brought up to hate the 
Catholic Church. His father was one of the 
bitterest opponents of Catholic Emancipa- 
tion.” 

Evodia’s ideas on the subject of religion 
were somewhat vague; she had never come 
much in contact with extremes of either party 
in the Established Church, although James 
and Milly Bryden called themselves High 
Church, and only attended those places of wor- 
ship where their particular views were upheld. 
Theoretically, Evodia disliked all that she had 
been taught of the Catholic Church, and of its 
dominion over the souls of men. She had 
learned nearly all she knew of it from the 
histories which are given to most English chil- 
dren. But she regarded such things rather 
in the light of spiritual politics, recognizing 
the fact that one might take one side or the 
other — but not too enthusiastically. She was 
a Protestant much as she was a Conservative, 
because such had been the acceptable views to 
those who had educated her and with whom 
she had all her life been associated. To make 
a fuss about the casual coming or going of a 
priest seemed absurd and a little childish. 


CHAPTER VI 


^Thad a great surprise just now, Felix,” 
A said Genevieve at dinner; “as I was 
dressing I saw such a strange figure in the 
garden. It was getting dark, and I thought 
it must be a ghost, but Suzanne assured me 
it was a Franciscan friar. One sees lots of 
them abroad, but in England it is an unusual 
sight. What did he want? Did he come here 
to beg? And did you give him anything? 
He reminded me of the dear creature in the 
‘Sentimental Journey’ !” 

“In my young days,” said Sir Henry 
angrily, “it was not customary for ladies to 
read Sterne. I regret that they have emanci- 
pated themselves in these matters.” 

“Oh, but he’s quite a classic now!” said 
Genevieve, wondering what her father-in-law 
would think of the array of French novels 
with which she was wont to beguile the tedious 
hours at Mollingmere. Then, returning 
pitilessly to the original subject of her dis- 
course: “Did he want anything, Felix?” 

“I gave him what he asked for — food and 

n 


78 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


shelter,” said Felix, stiffly; “or, rather, my 
grandfather was kind enough to do so.” 

“Pardon me,” said Sir Henry, “you had the 
civility only to ask my permission when you 
had invited him to stay for the night. I wish 
I’d seen the scoundrel! I’d have had him 
out of my place neck and crop ! I shall speak 
to Adam about it to-morrow, and tell him to 
enforce my rule about trespassers with the ut- 
most rigor!” 

Felix was silent. If only the hand of 
destiny had not guided Father Antony so 
unwittingly to the gates of Mollingmere! 

That Sir Henry should be at all annoyed 
with Felix — as he so obviously was — was such 
a new departure, one so entirely novel to 
Genevieve, who hated to hear him extolled al- 
ways as a paragon to the detriment of her be- 
loved Keith, that she could not resist making 
the most of the opportunity offered. Putting 
on her most babyish and “fluffy” demeanor, 
she fixed large innocent blue eyes upon Felix. 
“Did you really invite him to stay?” she asked, 
“how quite lovely! Shall we see him after 
dinner? I am longing to talk to him — it 
would be so interesting! Don’t you think it 
would be very interesting, Evodia? Why 
didn’t he dine with us?” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


79 


The pallor of Felix’s face changed to a dull 
red. Could nothing prevent this foolish 
woman from talking? He looked nervously 
at his grandfather. 

“Felix has the honor of winning your ap- 
proval, Genevieve,” he said with fierce irony, 
“and with that, I am afraid, he must be con- 
tented. If he displeases me a second time by 
inviting guests without consulting me, he will 
find the doors of Mollingmere closed against 
himself as well as his friends.” Turning to 
Felix he said: “I hope you have informed 
this man that it is my desire he should leave 
this house at the earliest possible moment to- 
morrow morning. He can have some break- 
fast before he goes. He must find his own 
way to the station!” 

Felix bowed. “I am sure he will leave 
quite early,” he said. 

Afterwards the conversation became more 
impersonal, and was conducted chiefly by 
Evodia, as Mrs. Keith had been thoroughly 
frightened by her brief glimpse of Sir Henry’s 
temper, and was now reduced to a semblance 
of discretion. She was content that Evodia 
should do the talking while she herself re- 
mained for the most part silent. She found 
Evodia heavy in hand — wondered how any one 


80 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


so young could be so serious ; but even she could 
not deny her absolute suitability for her future 
position. She was all part of this stately, 
beautiful, dignified, deadly-dull Mollingmere. 
She wouldn’t want to change anything! 
Genevieve knew that she was herself quite out 
of the picture. If there had only been one 
room in the house furnished in the modern 
French way, she would have been content. 
But the heavy, early- Yictorian furniture, 
which in its mahogany vastness eclipsed much 
that was beautiful and charming of earlier 
days, crowded the rooms, and Genevieve 
sought in vain for a soft and comfortable chair 
with the great cushions she adored. The 
frowning family portraits seemed to regard 
her with almost as much disapproval as did Sir 
Henry himself; the armored figures in the 
shadows of the hall frightened her (there was 
one with an ax and a black mask that filled 
her with a real fear!) ; while the moth-eaten 
tapestries and dark panels could never make a 
fitting background for this frivolous child of 
the twentieth century. Now with Evodia it 
was quite different, and Genevieve felt that 
she would continue to live a dull, monotonous, 
unexciting life there, as Felix’s wife, until she 
died. They would keep up all the old tradi- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


81 


tions of Mollingmere. Being ungifted her- 
self, she felt no little envy at the whole-hearted 
praise bestowed upon Evodia’s singing by Sir 
Henry. When dinner was over she had been 
called upon to sing, while Felix regarded her 
with rapturous attention, and Sir Henry re- 
covered from his ill-humor sufficiently to 
comment favorably upon the performance. 
To-night she sang, in her fine contralto, 
Gounod’s “Entreat me not to leave thee.” 

It seemed as if the sound of that young, 
deep, clear voice must penetrate from end to 
end of the old house, singing those poignant 
words of the Jewish widow: “Entreat me not 
to leave thee. . . . For where thou goest I will 
go. . . . Thy God shall he my God . . .” 
With what pride, with what supreme confi- 
dence they fell across the stillness : “Thy God 
shall he my God. ... And where thou diest 
I will die! . . .” 

There was emotion in her voice ; it communi- 
cated itself to her listeners. When she had 
finished she rose from the piano and no one 
spoke, but she saw Felix’s dark eyes gazing 
at her as if they were aflame. “I first i°J in 
love with your voice” — he had told her once. 
But for the presence of his grandfather and 
Genevieve he would have kissed her then as 


82 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

he had never dared to kiss her. Six weeks — 
and she would be his wife. — Would the envious 
gods permit so much happiness to one mortal? 

At a quarter to ten the bell was rung for 
prayers, and they all adjourned to the dining- 
room, where the servants had already assem- 
bled. Sir Henry always prayed at great 
length, and to-night did so with more emphasis 
than usual, remembering no doubt that stray- 
ing sheep who was under his roof that night. 
The ladies then went to bed, and Felix and 
his grandfather retired to the study for another 
hour. 

That night they had some business in con- 
nection with Felix’s marriage to discuss, and 
Felix did not go up to bed till after eleven 
o’clock. As he passed the priest’s room, he 
could see that a light was still burning under 
Father Antony’s door. Could it be that he 
had not yet gone to bed? Perhaps he was 
still praying? Felix passed on into his own 
room. Presently across the deep silence there 
fell a sharp, distinct sound. He could not 
at first analyze it. It fell again — then again 
— with rhythmic precision and regularity. It 
was the sound of a scourge, wielded none too 
lightly. Felix had only dimly heard of such 
things — the discipline taken in memory of the 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


88 


Flagellation — this deliberate and sharply pain- 
ful subdual of the flesh. But he had never 
read the Lives of the Saints, least of all did 
he know anything beyond the mere name of 
that Christ-like figure who, in the thirteenth 
century, had striven with such infinite humility 
and patience and self-renouncement to follow 
in the footsteps of his Divine Master, that he 
had actually borne for the last two years of his 
life the very marks of the stigmata on his 
wasted body, — that saint indeed to whose or- 
der Father Antony belonged. In the tense 
silence the sharp and cruel sound assumed an 
eerie and sinister quality. It produced an al- 
most morbid impression of horror upon Felix 
Scaife. It seemed to continue for such a long 
time and so relentlessly. He thought of that 
fragile, spent body, worn out with the long 
fatigue of a sleepless night, of his mission of 
charity so recently fulfilled, of the long walk 
to Mollingmere — and now the scourge! It 
seemed to him unnecessary, exaggerated, fu- 
tile, a useless spending of strength, a worth- 
less and morbid self-torture. No other sound 
— through the thin wall if any groan had es- 
caped those set lips he must surely have heard 
it. There was one wild moment when he 
longed to rush into the room and snatch the 


84 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


scourge from his hands and entreat him to 
desist. It stopped at last, and Felix fell 
asleep, with the echoes of that pitiless sound 
filling his thoughts, following him into his 
none too peaceful dreams. 

There was a faint sound of movement in 
the next room which caused him to awaken 
suddenly. He stretched out his hand, lit a 
match, and sitting up in bed, listened atten- 
tively. He saw his own door move, and the 
next moment the figure of the friar appeared 
on the threshold. Springing out of bed, Felix 
went quickly towards him, and was just in time 
to catch the swaying figure in his arms. 

“I must apologize” — the words came 
faintly; “I am ill — my heart . . 

In the fitful light of the candle his face 
showed ghastly pale; the blue shadows round 
mouth and eyes were accentuated. 

Felix lifted him in his arms and carried him 
to a couch, not without some surprise that this 
tall man in his heavy, coarse habit should 
weigh so little. As he lay back on the couch 
he seemed to lose consciousness and his breath 
came in short gasps. Felix believed that he 
must be dying. And alone — save for himself 
— at this hour, when it was impossible to get 
any medical help. There flashed also through 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


85 


his mind the thought that Catholics had special 
rites to be administered to the dying, although 
he was ignorant of their precise nature. 
Felix’s thoughts were abnormally active, 
though confused. He raised the priest’s head, 
splashed cold water in his face, tried to rub 
warmth into those stone-cold hands and feet, 
and once he found himself actually praying 
that Father Antony might not die at Molling- 
mere without the consolations his religion 
could give him. This man had in the few 
hours of their so strangely renewed acquaint- 
ance given evidence of his complete faith in 
things which Felix had always been taught 
were not only false but idolatrous, and cer- 
tainly beyond the acceptance of a sane Eng- 
lishman. Had it not been averred also over 
and over again that countries which still ad- 
hered to these beliefs degenerated, lost power, 
sank at last into decadence? This man’s con- 
vinced asceticism had been that very night 
clearly demonstrated to Felix. Even when 
he had listened horror-stricken to the falling 
of the scourge, he felt that he had no right 
to have heard it ; that he had penetrated, albeit 
unwittingly, into the spiritual secrets of an- 
other man’s life. Perhaps indeed the priest 
had purposely postponed it until such an hour. 


86 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


when normally every one would have been in 
bed. Felix’s imagination ran riot; he seemed 
to be like one in a dream, ministering eagerly 
to the sick man, wondering if he would die now 
— here in his arms — wondering if he would 
speak again — what he would say. 

Felix had always believed himself to be sane 
and controlled, the product of a civilization 
that was in itself sufficient to influence a man 
to right and honorable conduct, an authority 
not without ideals and of which he was a loyal 
son. But this man — this man, Father An- 
tony, though still young, was a mere slave, 
and subject to rules and discipline that most 
men would consider degrading. He had even 
relinquished property (for Felix remembered 
that he was the eldest son) to enter the priest- 
hood. He had voluntarily given up many de- 
sirable, beautiful, and wholesome things to be 
— this. Felix regarded that prostrate form, 
from the gleaming tonsure that looked so 
white against the blackness of the hair, to the 
thin bare feet which seemed to suggest that 
he was little more than a living skeleton. 
The unconscious face was, however, beautiful 
in its calm serenity. Years of voluntary pri- 
vation, poverty, self-effacement, and ascetic 
detachment had only combined to impress the 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


87 


features with a visible peace that was clearly 
the outward expression of the soul within. 
There was something here above mere civiliza- 
tion, something that was immeasurably above 
any loyalty to human ideals and conventions. 
It set him apart ; it made him seem like a man 
who had passed painfully through some 
mysterious and difficult process of purification ; 
that which has indeed been called the Dark 
Night of the Soul . 

The cold water trickled down the white, im- 
movable face, but there was no sign of return- 
ing consciousness. Felix unloosed the harsh 
brown folds of the habit and saw that round 
the throat a small Crucifix and a large brown 
scapular were suspended. 

Presently the dark eyes opened; instinctively 
the thin hand strayed up to the Crucifix and 
clasped it. 

“Where am I? ... I thought this was 
death. . . . Oh, is that you, Scaife? I had 
forgotten. ... I hope I have not been a 
great trouble to you. . . .” 

Felix forced a little brandy between his lips. 
“Don’t talk,” he said gently; “just lie quiet 
a little longer. You have had a sharp at- 
tack.” 

There was a long silence. The hush and 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


88 

stillness of the whole house communicated it- 
self to this little upper room where death 
seemed to be waiting on the threshold ready to 
snatch this frail life. But after a time Father 
Antony fell asleep, and Felix, venturing at 
last to leave him, ran downstairs, roused a 
groom at the stables, and told him to ride im- 
mediately over to Weardean, where the near- 
est doctor lived, and bid him come at once. 

When he returned. Father Antony was 
awake and looked a little better. 

“I have had these attacks before, after great 
fatigue,” he said; “they soon pass. But I am 
sorry to have disturbed your night’s rest.” 

“It doesn’t matter in the least — I was only 
too glad to be of use,” said Felix. “I’ve just 
been down to tell them to fetch the doctor. 
I’m afraid there isn’t a priest anywhere near,” 
he added, half-apologetically. 

“Else I should not be here myself,” said 
Father Antony; “it makes my heart ache to 
see these neglected country villages in Eng- 
land. Always one finds Catholics with no op- 
portunity of practising their religion.” 

Felix moved restlessly. His own life was 
quite untouched by things held by this man to 
be so vital. On Sundays he always went to 
church in the morning; there was Morning 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


89 


Prayer, including the Litany; the psalms for 
the day were read, each verse alternately by 
the rector and the congregation respectively; 
there was a sermon of some length embody- 
ing strictly Evangelical principles ; two hymns 
were sung. Felix or his grandfather usually 
read one of the lessons. Once a month there 
was the Communion Service, and on that oc- 
casion there was no Litany. Mr. Matheson, 
the rector, was now a very old man, hut his 
hatred of all ritualistic practices was only sec- 
ond in its bitterness to his hatred of the 
Catholic Church — for had he not as a young 
child joined in the cry of No Popery? 

Looking at his watch, Felix saw that it was 
now nearly five o’clock, and a very faint glim- 
mer of light showed, suggesting rather than 
outlining the window square. For another 
hour he continued to watch his patient, who 
slept fitfully; but his anxiety for the doctor’s 
arrival was undiminished. 

At six o’clock the doctor arrived, examined 
Father Antony’s heart, gave him some medi- 
cine which he had brought with him, for Felix’s 
hasty message had given him a definite idea 
of what was wrong. He also inserted the 
sharp point of a hypodermic syringe into the 
thin forearm. 


90 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


Felix followed him out of the room when 
he left. “Well?” he said. 

The doctor looked grave. “The attack is 
over for the present,” he said, “but it’s been 
a near thing. He’s a Franciscan, isn’t he? 
One of the Cossoway lot, I suppose? Well, 
he can go back there to-day if you can take 
him over quietly in the car — it would be safer, 
and it is not more than fifteen miles from here 
if you go by Whitten. Of course there is ab- 
solutely no hope, humanly speaking; he might 
have another attack at any moment, and it 
would probably prove immediately fatal. But 
I expect he wants to go, and I don’t think it’s 
very likely he will have another attack just 
yet. And he mustn’t travel alone. You must 
keep an eye on him all the time. Don’t stint 
the brandy — it is absolutely necessary in a 
case of this kind. Give him a light breakfast 
and see that he eats it, and don’t lose too much 
time.” 

Felix thanked him and went back to Father 
Antony. “I’m going to motor you over to 
Cossoway,” he said ; “it’ll be quicker, and you’ll 
go more comfortably. We shall be there in 
less than an hour.” 

“Thank you with all my heart. May your 
charity be rewarded!” The friar raised his 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 91 

sunken eyes with an expression of profound 
gratitude. 

Moved by a sudden impulse that he was 
never able to explain, Felix bent over him and 
said — “I want to tell you that I prayed — last 
night, when you were so ill — that you might 
not die here — alone, without a priest — with- 
out the — the rites of your Church.” 

Father Antony lifted his hand, made the 
Sign of the Cross over him, and murmured 
some Latin words which Felix knew must be 
a blessing. 


CHAPTER VII 


F elix appeared at breakfast looking pale 
and heavy-eyed from want of sleep. 
The excitement of the night’s happenings had 
disturbed him; for the moment his mental 
equilibrium was completely upset. He could 
not see things quite in their normal light, with 
their usual crystallized outlines. Evodia saw 
that he was perturbed, and wondered if Sir 
Henry had sought out the Franciscan and 
made a scene. Felix’s greeting was cold, lack- 
ing in tenderness. Mrs. Keith came down 
earlier than usual; she had foregone her cus- 
tom of breakfasting in bed in order to get the 
chance of meeting Father Antony. She was 
disappointed at finding that he would not join 
them at their meal. 

Felix saw that there would be no chance of 
seeing his grandfather alone, and as he had or- 
dered the car to be around at nine o’clock 
punctually, it was quite necessary to explain 
why he had done so, and inform him of Father 
Antony’s illness during the night. It was not 

an easy task. Disliking to re-open the sub- 
92 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


93 


ject, especially in front of Genevieve, who was 
in a very talkative mood, he made one or two 
abortive attempts to prepare Sir Henry, who, 
however, took not the slightest notice. Prob- 
ably his grandfather imagined that the priest 
had already taken his departure, and that the 
disagreeable incident was closed. 

He said at last bluntly: “Father Antony 
was taken very ill last night — or, rather, early 
this morning. He came to my room and then 
fainted, and I thought he was going fo die. 
I had to send for Staples, who says the case 
is quite hopeless — he might die at any moment. 
He had a heart attack. Staples said I’d bet- 
ter motor him back to Cossoway, so I’ve or- 
dered the car to be around at nine o’clock. 
Only” — he turned to Evodia — “I am so sorry 
it should have happened to-day, because I shall 
have to be away till nearly luncheon-time, so I 
can’t go to Brighton as we settled.” 

During this speech Sir Henry was silent, 
but his face assumed a dull purple hue, and he 
looked extraordinarily like an angry parrot. 

“I should have thought other obligations 
came first!” stormed Sir Henry; “the fuss you 
are making about this wretched man is quite 
insupportable! Send Williams with him — * 
they can go by train.” 


94 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“I beg your pardon,” said Felix unmoved,: 
“Staples said it was most necessary that I 
should go with him — he is in a very serious 
state, and we should feel responsible if any- 
thing happened to him on the way back.” 

“I won’t stand this kind of thing, sir ! Send 
Williams with this Popish priest! I’m not 
going to be defied and disobeyed in my own 
house. I don’t know what has come over you ! 
I won’t stand it! You think your position 
here is so secure that you can do what you 
choose, but, let me tell you, you are very much 
mistaken!” 

“I am very sorry,” said Felix suavely; “but 
Williams wouldn’t be the slightest use if 
Father Antony got ill again. Staples has 
given me all the directions as to what I am 
to do supposing — there should be any recurring 
symptoms. Evodia will forgive me” — he 
turned to her, and an expression of peculiar 
gentleness came into his eyes; “it will only be 
for a few hours.” There was a note of ap- 
peal in his voice. 

Until then she had not spoken; she was 
afraid of making things worse, but now she 
looked straight at Sir Henry and said: “I 
think I agree with Felix — that he ought to do 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


95 


what the doctor says, and not shift the re- 
sponsibility.” 

“Aren’t you afraid it may be only a ruse 
to entice you into their monastery?” said Gene- 
vieve flippantly. “Do you think you will be 
allowed to come back? How I should love to 
be going with you!” 

“I must beg you not to jest upon such very 
serious subjects, Genevieve,” said Sir Henry 
sternly. “At the same time I should of course 
very greatly prefer that Felix should not ex- 
pose himself willfully to the contaminating in- 
fluence of such a place !” 

“The car is at the door, sir,” said the foot- 
man. 

Felix rose from his seat. He signed to 
Evodia to follow him. They went together 
across the hall and into the library, where the 
morning papers were lying on a table. He 
gathered two of them up and folded them, 
without looking at her, without speaking a 
word. 

Then suddenly he turned abruptly toward 
her, drew her to him, and kissed her. “My 
dearest — I am tired out! You can’t think 
what it was like — waiting for that poor chap 
to die before my eyes! Dear, I hate leaving 


96 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

you like this. Tell me that you think I ought 
to go!” 

“Yes — of course I think you ought to go. 
But you will come back as soon as you can? 
I hope he won’t be ill on the way, poor man! 
Felix.” 

She uttered his name with sharp appeal. 

“Yes — what is it, my darling?” 

“I was only thinking how strangely things 
happen! Even this little separation is so un- 
expected. Yesterday we never thought you 
would have to go away, even for a few hours — 
or that there would be these — scenes.” 

“It is unexpected,” he said slowly; “Father 
Antony’s coming — it was unfortunate — it 
was the thing of all others most likely to an- 
noy my grandfather. But I can’t help it, can 
I? You see I’m obliged to go! Williams 
would have been about as much use as a bad 
headache!” 

She laughed, and he kissed her again, and 
then they went back into the hall. Williams 
was helping Father Antony down the stairs. 
In the courtyard the sunshine was dancing, 
making patterns of mauve and gold on the 
flagstones. A thrush was singing. It was a 
beautiful spring day, warm for the time of 
year. An almond tree had burst into early 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


97 


bloom and showed a mass of rose-pink foam 
against a sky that was vividly blue. 

In the drive beyond, the motor was puffing 
as if in a hurry to start. On the threshold 
Father Antony halted. Felix came towards 
him with Evodia. “This is Miss Essex,” he 
said; “she is going to be my wife in a few 
weeks.” 

The priest said quietly: “I congratulate 
you both — ” 

Above his rough, brown habit Evodia saw 
that his face was deathly pale, white almost 
to transparency ; the dark eyes were both 
sunken and brilliant. Moved by some feeling 
that was almost like pity, she held out her 
hand to him. 

“Good-by,” she said; “I hope you will not 
be any the worse for your journey.” 

Father Antony lifted his hand even as he 
had done on the preceding night, and made 
the Sign of the Cross over these two figures 
standing side by side. They bowed their 
heads. Felix had a strong impulse to kneel 
down. Probably the supercilious expression 
of the valet prevented him from obeying it. 
Again he heard the murmured words of the 
Latin blessing. Evodia would have been 
slightly irritated by the action, deeming it un- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


necessary and superfluous, had not F ather An- 
tony looked so very ill. But he was so ob- 
viously a dying man — and evidently one for 
whom death held no fear, only the fulfillment 
of a great promise. There was something not 
unattractive to her in the face — in its curious 
reticence, its passivity, its impersonality and 
absence of emotion. She had never before 
known the peculiar detachment of the reli- 
gious. She only half -appreciated the pres- 
ence of it in this man, but she felt that, what- 
ever his faith and occupation might be, he was 
quite and essentially apart from the world of 
men and things. 

She watched them as they got into the car, 
Williams assisting Felix in supporting the 
Franciscan as he walked feebly across the 
courtyard. Felix and Father Antony sat to- 
gether in the tonneau of the car, and Evodia 
watched it until it was lost to sight around the 
sharp curve of the avenue. Then she walked 
quietly back into the house. 

Sir Henry was standing in the hall with 
Genevieve, evidently waiting for her return. 

“A nice state of things!” he growled, “that 
we should have these people planted down — 
dumped down, I ought to say — in this coun- 
try — a Protestant country, too! just because 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


99 


France is sick to death of them and their con- 
spiracies! Undesirable aliens I call them, 
and not one of them should ever be allowed 
to land here if I had my way! I’d have them 
out neck and crop, and so would any decent 
government! But we have got a set of 
purblind fools here ruling the country and 
making it unbearable for a Christian man!” 

“But he looked so awfully picturesque,” 
chimed in Genevieve; “so charmingly me- 
diaeval — I had another teeny glimpse of him 
out of the window! Did you speak to him, 
Evodia? What did he say to you? And 
isn’t it romantic to think of poor Felix being 
carried off into the lion’s den? I only hope 
he will come back unscathed!” 

Sir Henry suppressed a savage word. 
Then with an effort he said: “Evodia, I pro- 
pose to drive you into Brighton to-day. We 
can have an early luncheon there and return 
immediately — we shall be back as soon as 
Felix. Would you care to come? Gene- 
vieve, I know you are lunching with the Ack- 
royds. I can send you over in the cart — I’m 
afraid there is nothing else available.” 

“The cart will do most beautifully,” said 
Genevieve, who felt that there was some 
chance of herself and Keith being admitted 


100 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


to the old man’s favor since he was now so 
obviously furious with Felix. Evodia was 
thankful that some scheme had been devised 
to take Sir Henry’s thoughts off Felix, and 
she agreed readily to his suggestion. His 
irascibility grated upon her, and in Felix’s 
absence she found it difficult to bear it philo- 
sophically. The sudden parting with him, 
though only for a few hours, had given her a 
curious sense of the instability of things. A 
vague fear for the future possessed her. She 
was afraid that even now something might 
intervene to hurt their happiness. It was a 
thing too delicate to hold — like a moth whose 
fragile wings lose the bloom of their beauty 
at first touch. And the priest’s eyes haunted 
her. She wondered what he had said to Felix 
last night during those hours when he was 
lying mortally ill upstairs. He might indeed 
have died there — before Felix’s eyes. She 
felt that those long hours passed together by 
the two men, one of whom was so close to 
death, must have accelerated and deepened a 
curious intimacy between them. She had no- 
ticed how friendly and free from coldness 
Felix’s manner had been to the friar. He 
had introduced him to her rather as if he had 
been an old and intimate friend. And he had 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


101 


seemed so careful of him — so solicitous for his 
comfort. It had been an attitude almost of 
affection, rather like that of a son for a sick 
and suffering father, tender, respectful. She 
remembered, too, his stubborn, though per- 
fectly polite refusal to hand Father Antony 
over to the ministrations of Williams. He 
had not been afraid to oppose Sir Henry 
frankly and definitely in the matter, thus in- 
curring his wrath, his ominous threats. She 
had realized then how entirely their future 
depended upon this angry and violent old 
man. But Evodia had liked Felix the better 
for this exhibition of quiet strength, this de- 
termination to do his duty, even though he 
knew it must wound and annoy his grand- 
father. Yet, all the time she had wondered 
if it had been quite necessary — whether in 
short Williams would not have done as well! 
The glimpse she had had of the two as they 
drove off in the motor had disquieted her. She 
had almost what amounted to a presentiment 
that things were not going to end there. She 
could see that Felix was very far from sharing 
his grandfather’s hostility towards the priest. 
He was not acting in this way only because it 
was his duty, but because he liked Father An- 
tony — was disposed to be on terms of friend- 


10 2 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


ship with him, was anxious to serve him. 
That was how it had struck her, and she felt 
that in those few hours of desperate inter- 
course Felix had been by some means won 
over strongly and permanently to F ather An- 
tony’s side. It had been impossible not to ob- 
serve this, and it gave her a feeling that was 
something like jealousy. It had not hurt him 
to leave her — to go away for several hours, 
perhaps for many hours; it had pleased him 
to go. He had asked her forgiveness for per- 
forming this duty, but in reality she was con- 
vinced it had been both his will and his pleas- 
ure. Of what, then, had Father Antony 
spoken last night to win Felix in this way? 
Was it true, as Sir Henry had suggested, that 
these men were tireless in spreading their nets 
for the unwary? 

Sir Henry was delayed in Brighton, and 
they did not return to Mollingmere till nearly 
five o’clock. Evodia was glad to think that 
Felix must certainly have arrived there first, 
and would be waiting to welcome her. But 
there was no sign of him, and when they en- 
tered the hall he was not there. Perhaps he 
was resting after his sleepless night. Disap- 
pointment, however, awaited her. A tele- 
gram addressed to her lay on the hall-table; 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


103 


she tore open the orange-colored envelope 
with a feeling of dismay. The message was 
brief. 

“Regret impossible return to-day. Father 
Antony dying. With love from Felice ” 

The post-mark was Cossoway. Without a 
word she gave the message to Sir Henry. A 
sensation of chill fear possessed her. Until 
to-day there had never been any sensible cloud 
to dim the gladness of her happiness. She 
shivered. He was not coming back to-day — 
and he had said he would come back early. 
He would not — even for her — leave this dying 
man whom until yesterday he had hardly 
known. 

Sir Henry regarded her attentively. But 
there was no sign of emotion nor of disap- 
pointment nor surprise in her face, which was 
so cold and grave that it froze even him into 
an unwilling silence. 


CHAPTER VIII 


T hat Felix should send another tele- 
gram early on the following day, again 
postponing his return, did not surprise 
Evodia; she told herself that she had always 
expected it. They were sitting at luncheon 
when the message came, and she read it with- 
out comment, and calmly informed Sir Henry 
of its purport. Genevieve did not lose the op- 
portunity of saying, with a malicious laugh: 
“Didn’t I tell you that they would keep him 
there? We shall have to organize a rescue 
party!” She felt that here was an invaluable 
occasion for incensing Sir Henry against his 
favorite grandson, and promoting the restora- 
tion to tardy favor of her own husband, who 
was so sorely in need of financial assistance. 

It was the last day of Evodia’s stay at Mol- 
lingmere, and she resolved to go away as early 
as she could on the following morning, before 
there was any prospect of Felix’s return. If 
he could be so indifferent, so, indeed, careless of 
her feelings, she would show him that she could 
also be indifferent and careless. It was only 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


105 


the fear of still further incensing Sir Plenry 
that made her refrain from returning to town 
that afternoon. 

She had tried diligently but ineffectually 
to calm Sir Henry’s irritability, for her work 
was immediately undone by Genevieve’s 
speeches. Genevieve considered that her hus- 
band had always been unfairly treated; she 
scarcely realized that Keith, with his reckless 
extravagance, his perpetual defiance of au- 
thority, combined with his imprudent mar- 
riage, had neither sought nor obtained the old 
man’s favor. 

Damaging Felix was apparently the only 
means of procuring a measure of favor for 
Keith. Besides, Genevieve was not a little 
jealous of Evodia herself, since she had won 
her way so swiftly, and apparently without 
effort, to Sir Henry’s heart. He made an 
absurd fuss with her, Genevieve thought bit- 
terly, when she contrasted it with the chilling 
reception that had been so reluctantly meted 
out to her and Keith, when a formal and dif- 
ficult reconciliation had been effected after 
they had already been married nearly a year. 

She was perfectly aware that Sir Henry 
regarded Keith’s marriage with herself as a 
mesalliance , and therefore had welcomed with 


106 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


proportionate ardor this prospective daughter- 
in-law, so well-bred and gifted, so lovely and 
full of charm. 

The two days spent at Mollingmere with- 
out Felix were trying and rather unhappy 
ones for Evodia; she was thankful when the 
hour of departure approached. The weather 
had changed with the capriciousness of early 
spring; it had rained relentlessly for nearly 
twelve hours, and a rough, harsh, southwest- 
erly wind blew from the sea. It was impossi- 
ble to go out all that last afternoon, except 
for a few minutes after tea. 

“I hope you will not forgive Felix too easily 
for this,” Sir Henry said to her as he bade her 
farewell and kissed her forehead. “In the 
first days of his engagement it is unpardon- 
able for a man to permit other things to come 
between him and his fiancee ” 

“I always want Felix to feel quite — quite 
free,” she said, with an effort. “And perhaps 
he could not help himself,” she added. There 
was no hint of reproach in her tone. But — a 
dying friar — dying, too, in his own monastery, 
surrounded by his brothers in religion — what 
need had he to keep by his side a young man 
of alien faith, upon whom he could have no 
shadow of claim? Deliberately, it seemed to 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


107 


her, Felix had put her on one side. She did 
not wish to be exacting, but the whole episode 
had struck her as ridiculous and unnecessary. 
Surely his obligation was amply discharged 
when he had taken Father Antony back to 
Cossoway in the car. Surely there could have 
been no need to remain longer with him! She 
was beginning to see the situation as Sir 
Henry saw it, and as — alas! — Lady Beaufoy 
would inevitably see it. The tears came into 
her eyes as she drove away to the station. Her 
humiliation seemed to have been sealed by 
Genevieve’s parting words of pity: “Poor 
little deserted fiancee ! But you will be quite 
used to this sort of thing by the time you have 
been married a year!” 

On the way to the station Evodia wept a 
little unrestrainedly. But it was a relief to 
be alone. It was so dismal — this departure 
without Felix after their happy days together. 
They had always arranged that he should travel 
back with her, and should stay for a few days 
at Curzon Street. But this plan had evidently 
entirely escaped his memory. She felt angry 
with him for having exposed her to so much 
annoyance — to Sir Henry’s ill-temper, to 
Genevieve’s contemptuous pity, and now to 
the inescapable questions of Lady Beaufoy. 


108 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


He was completely occupied with other 
things; he had only sent her two telegrams 
and one short note. Her heart hardened a 
little against the man to whom she had given 
perhaps too quickly all that she had of love. 

The lake looked drowned in the pouring 
rain; she could hardly see the opposite banks; 
the river was a tawny and swollen current, 
giving back no smiling glance to the leaden, 
rain-filled sky. The trees had a gray wintry 
aspect. Evodia remembered how the mere 
had looked on the day of her arrival — a space 
of crystal and silver, broken with blue shad- 
ows, clear as a mirror, and beautiful in its 
serenity. 

Once beyond the great gates she breathed a 
sigh of relief. She was out of reach of Sir 
Henry’s irascible sympathy and Genevieve’s 
provoking tactlessness. There was now only 
Lady Beaufoy to be faced — she would have to 
steel herself to answer her questions — to ex- 
plain Felix’s non-appearance. It would not 
be very easy to explain, and she dreaded the 
interview with all the force of her reticent and 
silent disposition. 

Lady Beaufoy was having luncheon alone 
when Evodia arrived. The train had been a 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


109 


little late. She was surprised to see her niece 
enter the dining-room alone. She noticed that 
the girl looked pale and tired, and that there 
were dark shadows under her eyes. 

Evodia stooped and kissed her, and took her 
seat at the table. 

“I am afraid I am a little late — the train 
was late,” she said. 

She was dressed in a long, dark traveling 
wrap and a close-fitting hat and veil; there 
was always something ungirlish about her, and 
to-day this was accentuated; she looked older, 
her gravity was more marked. Lady Beau- 
foy had an immediate instinct that something 
had happened. 

“Didn’t you bring Felix with you?” she 
asked. 

“No — he didn’t come with me.” Evodia 
toyed with the food on her plate. She waited 
till the servants had left the room, then she 
said desperately: “He is not coming to-day 
— he is not in town.” 

“Oh, you left him down at Mollingmere ?” 
said her aunt. 

“No — he was not at Mollingmere,” said 
Evodia. “But he — wrote—” 

“Wrote?* exclaimed Lady Beaufoy. 

Had anything gone wrong? Had Evodia 


110 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


quarreled already with her lover? Had Sir 
Henry proved on close inspection too — too im- 
possible? Quite a number of probable and 
disquieting contingencies presented themselves 
immediately to Lady Beaufoy’s fertile imag- 
ination ! 

Her eyebrows, always arched, rose a little 
further towards the handsome gray curls that 
adorned her forehead. She waited for an ex- 
planation, her mind full of suspense. She 
hoped that Evodia was not going to be tire- 
somely reticent on the subject. It was so dif- 
ficult to question her. “But it is my business 
to know. I am in a mother’s position!” she 
thought. 

But the explanation came with an assump- 
tion of carelessness. 

“He had to go away from Mollingmere on 
Thursday morning — with a sick friend. He 
was not able to return.” 

The eyebrows slowly assumed a more nor- 
mal angle. “On Thursday morning? And 
to-day is Saturday! Do you mean to say he 
has not been at Mollingmere since Thursday 
morning?” 

“No,” said Evodia. 

“Where did he go to?’ 

“To a place called Cossoway,” said Evodia. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


ill 


“And where on earth is Cossoway?” de- 
manded Lady Beaufoy, putting up her long- 
handled lorgnette. This action, so trivial 
and yet full of meaning, expressed at once 
dismay, astonishment, and a keen, rapacious 
curiosity. Evodia knew that there was but 
one course open to her — to satisfy, as far as 
possible without detriment to her lover, this 
insatiable curiosity. And, after all, the worst 
was not very bad; it was only, from her point 
of view, a little humiliating. 

“It is in Sussex,” said Evodia, “about fif- 
teen miles or so from Mollingmere.” Few 
people had the power to make Evodia really 
nervous, but Lady Beaufoy possessed the gift 
in full measure and did not hesitate to use it. 

“You have quarreled?” she hazarded. Had 
she been a person of less admirable physique 
the very idea of a permanent rupture between 
Felix Scaife and her niece would have made 
her feel faint. 

She had always congratulated herself upon 
the proposed brief engagement. In less than 
two months from the first announcement they 
were to be married. And where is the time to 
quarrel irremediably with one’s lover during 
seven or eight weeks profitably spent for the 
most part at the dressmaker’s? No — she felt 


112 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


sure that Sir Henry must have proved an in- 
superable obstacle! She had perhaps calcu- 
lated too much upon Evodia’s patience — a 
quality acquired in her long attendance upon 
a sick, exacting mother. Was it upon this 
rock that the ship had struck in so apparently 
calm a sea? No — she was quite sure it could 
not be that. It was F elix who had gone away 
— who had left Mollingmere during Evodia’s 
first visit there, had abandoned her for two 
whole days, and had not returned with her 
to Curzon Street, nor apparently vouchsafed 
much explanation of this extraordinary con- 
duct. 

Evodia, however, gave a little ripple of 
laughter. “Oh, please, Aunt Susan — we 
haven’t quarreled! Nothing so dreadfully 
tragic as that has happened!” 

Reassuring as this speech might be, it was 
by no means satisfying. There was a rift — 
however slight, however ephemeral. And 
rifts were apt to widen — to deepen. Lady 
Beaufoy in an agony of remembrance recalled 
her once poignant anxiety lest Sophy should 
at the eleventh hour break off her engagement 
to the portly but well-endowed Axel. 

“I am at a loss to account for such extraor- 
dinary conduct in any other way,” said Lady 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


113 


Beaufoy, with considerable asperity. “If 
you have not quarreled, why is he not here? 
Was the sick man a very intimate friend of 
his?” 

“He was at Oxford with him,” said Evodia. 

“And they were great friends?” persisted 
Lady Beaufoy. 

The prisoner in the dock faltered. 

“I — I do not think so.” 

“Was he staying at Mollingmere too? You 
did not mention any other guests except Mrs. 
Keith Scaife.” 

“He only stayed one night — Wednesday 
night.” 

“What was the matter with him?” A sud- 
den thought struck her. “Was it anything 
— infectious? Perhaps Felix was afraid of — 
of giving it to you!” 

“It was not anything infectious. He had 
a bad heart attack — he is said to be dying.” 

“But was he not with his own people at 
Cossoway? What did he want with Felix?” 

“The doctor would not let him travel alone, 
so Felix had to go with him. We expected 
him to return in a few hours. But he sent a 
telegram to say that his friend was dying — 
that he could not leave him!” 

“But he was not a very intimate friend, you 


m 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


said? I should have thought Felix would 
have been almost in the way!” 

“I did not think they seemed very intimate. 
Felix hadn’t seen him for some years — not 
since he left Oxford.” 

“The man had been abroad, I suppose?” 
Lady Beaufoy wished that it were less sur- 
passingly difficult to extract information from 
Evodia. Now Milly or Sophy would have 
rushed in and poured forth a recital with all 
available details, without waiting for her to 
ask a single question. They would have in- 
terspersed it, too, with reassuring if shrill 
laughter. 

“No — I do not think he had been abroad.” 

“But Felix felt obliged to remain with him 
— even though it meant leaving you during 
your first visit to Mollingmere?” 

The charge against Felix, thus crudely put, 
seemed, on the face of it, inexcusable. 

“Felix has a very strong sense of duty,” 
said Evodia, and she wondered if her aunt 
could detect the touch of ironical bitterness in 
the words, which, to her own ears, seemed so 
perfectly apparent. 

“He must, indeed,” said Lady Beaufoy, 
with inconceivable dryness. “However, my 
dear, you are the one to object, and if you con- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


115 


tinue to encourage him in this singularly un- 
comfortable and — inconvenient possession — ” 
She stopped short, for Evodia winced ever so 
slightly before the consuming sarcasm of her 
aunt’s calm, well-bred voice. 

“It would not, I think, have entered my 
head to object if you — and Sir Henry — had 
not pointed out that it was a strange thing for 
a man to do,” she said, a little nettled, and in- 
clined now to champion Felix. 

“My dear,” said Lady Beaufoy, “you have 
all the essential qualities a man could possibly 
desire in a wife. An incapacity for emotion” 
— (Evodia, remembering those hot, blistering 
tears shed in the carriage, gave a tortured little 
smile) — “a total lack of curiosity as to his 
movements, and a serene and unshakable be- 
lief in his sense of duty, no matter how long 
it impels him to stay away from home !” 

She waved a plump, smooth hand, assidu- 
ously manicured and daintily be-ringed. “I 
venture to prophesy years of unalloyed happi- 
ness!” 

She was not in her most suave humor, but 
her sharp cynicism was the outcome of a 
deadly, consuming fear — a fear that there 
must be something behind the scenes which, 
still unrevealed, had yet caused a definite if 


116 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

only temporary rupture between Evodia and 
Felix. 

“It is all so perfectly extraordinary,” she 
continued, with a slight increase of anger, 
deepened, no doubt, by Evodia’s silence. 
“Had this — this man no people to be with 
him? Is he alone and friendless at Cosso- 
way?” 

“He does not live with his relations,” said 
Evodia, “but he is not alone and friendless. 
He is in a monastery — he is a Franciscan. He 
was dressed in a brown habit, and he wore san- 
dals on his bare feet.” Since explanation must 
be, Evodia assured herself it would be wise 
not to delay it. Something in Lady Beau- 
foy’s humor reminded her oddly of Sir Henry 
— their point of view was so similar. She felt 
as if she had emerged — to use a homely simile 
— from the frying pan only to encounter the 
flame of a fiercer fire. 

The eyebrows disappeared once more into 
the handsome gray curls, and curiosity, now 
partially satisfied, gave place to unconcealed, 
unadulterated surprise. 

“A priest — a Franciscan — a brown habit — 
bare feet — sandals !” These words were ut- 
tered in a rapid crescendo. “You must be 
dreaming, Evodia! Knowing Sir Henry’s 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


117 


views — most old-fashioned and antiquated, of 
course — I am convinced that he would not 
have tolerated such a person under his roof 
for a single night!” 

“He was very, very angry,” said Evodia, 
reluctantly; “but Father Antony — that was 
his name — arrived quite unexpectedly — he had 
lost his way on the downs, and asked for a 
night’s shelter. Felix let him in, and they 
found they had known each other at Oxford. 
You see he was really a Mr. Vernon. And 
in the night he was taken very ill — it was his 
heart — and he woke Felix, who stayed with 
him nearly all night and had to send for a 
doctor. And they left Mollingmere at nine 
o’clock on Thursday morning, and Felix wrote 
to say that Father Antony was dying, and that 
he could not leave him. Sir Henry did ask me 
to stay until Felix returned.” 

“I am very glad you did not,” said Lady 
Beaufoy, “it would have been most undigni- 
fied. As it was, he has put you in a horribly 
awkward position — think how the servants 
must have talked ! I only hope Hortense was 
discreet. Was Felix — attentive to you be- 
fore this very regrettable incident took place?” 

“He was — quite attentive,” said Evodia. 

“And what did Sir Henry say to it all?” 


118 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“He always has a violent temper,” said 
Evodia, “and Genevieve irritates him. He 
was, of course, terribly displeased with Felix. 
He hates priests — I do not think he would 
have minded so much if the man had been any 
one else.” 

“It is to be hoped that Felix will not allow 
himself to be influenced by these absurd and 
designing persons!” said Lady Beaufoy. 

“He is not easily influenced,” said Evodia. 
But even as she uttered the words their truth 
seemed to become less assured. 

“At any rate he has already been sufficiently 
influenced by them to let them prevail upon 
him to spend two whole days at Cossoway, 
when duty as well as inclination should have 
prompted him to remain at home!” said Lady 
Beaufoy, sententiously. 

Duty — as well as inclination. The words 
stung. She wished she had been quite sure 
that he had simply obeyed the prompting of 
duty. But Evodia remembered with a sharp 
little pang his eagerness to go, the curious ten- 
derness of his attitude towards the sick man. 
Had there been, after all, a subtle influence 
— the influence her aunt and Sir Henry both 
feared? All her misgivings, increased a hun- 
dredfold by their speeches, rushed back to her 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


119 


mind. It was ridiculous, of course ! Such 
things could never permanently influence 
Felix Scaife! 

“I can only say I am delighted you should 
be so well satisfied,” said Lady Beaufoy. 

“Dear Aunt Susan — please don’t let us dis- 
cuss it any more! I wish, too, that it hadn’t 
happened just now. Genevieve and Sir 
Henry talked of nothing else. And I do want 
Felix always to come and go just as he pleases. 
I am not at all an exacting person really. 
The door is always open — isn’t that the best 
way?” 

“From the man’s point of view, I should 
say it was a counsel of perfection,” said Lady 
Beaufoy, with a sharp little smile; “but don’t 
be too indifferent, Evodia. It might mislead 
him!” 

Indifferent? Her heart was aching at this 
renewal of the discussion. Why must she de- 
fend him against such harsh insinuations? 
They had only been engaged a fortnight, and 
must she begin already — like Browning’s 
heroine — to put “any kiss of pardon on his 
brow”? Had he already begun to weary of 
his new fetters? Left to herself, she would 
so easily have assured herself that his only in- 
tention had been to humor a dying man. The 


no 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


dying have their strange caprices — and who 
can deny them any request? Who could be 
jealous of the claim of a dying man? But 
every one seemed bent upon finding another 
motive, and that motive lay deep down in the 
world-wide and irresistible dominion and 
power of a Church, which all these people dis- 
liked, and even feared! They were gradually 
instilling into her heart a kindred distrust — 
the seeds of a like hatred. They stigmatized 
the teaching of that Church as mediaeval, her 
tenets as obsolete superstitions, but always 
they feared her powerful sway over the minds 
and hearts of men. 

If only things could be left undiscussed! 
Already a great mountain had been made out 
of this poor little mole-hill. She did not know 
which was worse — Lady Beaufoy’s sharp, 
wounding cynicism or Sir Henry’s exas- 
perated vituperations. Against them both 
she had had to defend Felix, conscious that in 
her inmost heart there was a budding disloy- 
alty and distrust towards him. Whatever she 
might say, she was not wholly on his side. 
He had by his own actions given color to 
all their suspicions and suggestions. He had 
himself set the tongues wagging by an 
odd, capricious, unnecessary action. And so 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


m 

far he had shown no disposition to come back 
— to explain. 

The sudden entrance of Sophy put an end 
to the conversation, but Evodia knew that the 
subject would not long remain in abeyance. 
No doubt her cousin would also desire to as- 
certain the cause of Felix’s absence. 

“I came to congratulate you, Eve,” said 
Sophy, “and I hope to find Felix here, too. 
How did you enjoy Mollingmere? Were you 
not frightened to death by old Sir Henry? 
Lina Carson assured me that he is really the 
most terrifying old man — so gouty and irrita- 
ble — and that his grandsons are mortally 
afraid of him! What a pity it is that you 
have got to live at Mollingmere while he is 
alive! But perhaps you will spend most of 
your time in Portman Square — it is a nice 
house, I believe, but wants doing up dread- 
fully.” 

“I don’t think we shall be able to live in 
town,” said Evodia; “you see Felix has to 
look after the property for his grandfather 
— he is getting so old he can’t do much him- 
self.” 

“We are all coming to dinner to-night. I 
suppose Mamma told you,” said Sophy; “just 
a family party in your honor, Eve.” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


122 

“It will be rather like the play without 
Hamlet,” said Lady Beaufoy, “for Evodia 
doesn’t think that Felix will be — be able to get 
away !” 

“Get away? Didn’t he come up with you? 
I thought that was what had been arranged!” 
said Sophy, in a disappointed tone. 

“Yes — he was to have stayed here,” said 
Lady Beaufoy; “but he was called away unex- 
pectedly, Evodia tells me. A death-bed,” she 
added, for she did not want Sophy to know too 
much yet. 

“You must persuade him to leave you alone 
for a little now,” said Sophy, “or you will 
never get on with your trousseau. As it is, 
you have very little time.” 

Evodia only said: “He must do as he 
likes.” She reflected, with some bitterness, 
that, judging from his present conduct, he 
would not require any undue persuasion to 
adopt this course. 

“I hope you will not begin by being too 
complacent,” said Sophy; “men only take ad- 
vantage i” 

The door opened before Evodia could re- 
ply, and, greatly to her astonishment, Felix 
came into the room. He walked slowly to- 
wards them, his air being almost preoccupied; 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


ns 


he greeted Lady Beaufoy with a touch of ab- 
sent-mindedness and shook hands with Sophy. 
Then he turned to greet Evodia. 

“I was just telling Aunt Susan that I did 
not think you would come to-day after all,” 
she said, carelessly. 

“Did you not get my letter?” he said. “I 
sent it to Mollingmere.” 

“I left before the second post. Letters 
seemed to take a long time to come from Cos- 
soway.” 

“I wrote to tell you I should pass through 
town before going home in order to fulfill my 
original plan of staying here, if Lady Beau- 
foy will be so kind as to have me.” 

“Your room is quite ready. I was expect- 
ing you,” said Lady Beaufoy. 

“I wrote,” he continued, “directly I had 
your letter saying you were coming home to- 
day. I hoped you would stay on till my re- 
turn.” 

“You seemed so — so uncertain,” said 
Evodia; “and I have a great deal to do.” 

He had come, not knowing whether she 
would have arrived home already. Though 
only two days had passed since he had left 
her, they had seemed to him interminable cen- 
turies; everything that he had seen and done 


124 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


during the interval had combined to make the 
separation seem an almost endless one. 

He had looked upon pain, suffering, and 
death. Upon pain borne gladly, heroically; 
upon suffering almost welcomed ; upon a death 
that was like the victorious consummation of 
life. He had seen what Catholics call a holy 
death — that end for which they daily pray. 
He had realized the full meaning of those 
tremendous words, “Fortify by all the rites of 
Holy Church " 

For Father Antony had borne the journey 
well until they had reached the very doors of 
Cossoway. Then he had fainted. They car- 
ried him quickly into the parlor, placing him 
upon a hastily improvised bed. There had 
never been any possibility of taking him into 
the community enclosure ; his condition was al- 
together too critical, though once he had ex- 
pressed a wish to die in his own cell. The 
doctor came and found his condition critical, 
and forbade them to remove him. And there, 
late last night, he had died. 

Sophy’s chatter seemed to Felix more than 
usually unmeaning, and vapid. He wanted 
extremely to be alone with Evodia. There 
had been so much coldness in her greeting 
that he could not but think she was deeply 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


125 


displeased. And all the time of his absence 
he had consoled himself with the thought that, 
however much Sir Henry might rage and 
fume, Evodia, at least, would understand and 
sympathize. Even now, if he could see her 
alone, he could tell her all that had happened, 
sure of her swift sympathy and interest. 

He was glad when Sophy rose, saying: 
“Well, we shall all meet again this evening. 
You are coming out with me, are you not, 
Mamma?” and he was left alone with Evodia. 


CHAPTER IX 


W hen Lady Beaufoy and Sophy had 
left the room, a kind of constraint fell 
upon Felix and Evodia. Each was conscious 
of a lack of sympathy, of suavity, in their hith- 
erto happy intercourse. Felix felt that she was 
really annoyed with him. Of course he was 
aware that an exceedingly bad quarter of an 
hour awaited him on his return to Molling- 
mere, but from Evodia, at least, he had hoped 
there was nothing to fear. She sat there very 
silent ; she was not going to help him to begin. 
He thought she looked tired and rather ill; 
that long dark cloak, the close-fitting hat, gave 
a touch of severity to her appearance. At last 
he said : 

“Have you been back long?” 

“I arrived soon after two. How is Father 
Antony?” 

“He died late last night,” said Felix. “He 
was dying all the afternoon.” 

“It was fortunate it didn’t happen at Mol- 
lingmere,” she said. 


126 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


127 


He acquiesced, and added: “Especially 
from Father Antony’s point of view.” 

“Why?” she asked. 

“He would have been deprived of the last 
rites and consolations of his Church. Roman 
Catholics think — a great deal of these things!” 

“I suppose they do,” she said, rather ab- 
sently. But all the time she was thinking to 
herself: “It has influenced him — he has 
changed.” 

It was a subtle, indefinable change, but to 
her it was quite visible, quite obvious. It 
seemed to impregnate his very words. 

“Was it very uncomfortable at Cossoway?” 
she asked. 

“It isn’t exactly what you would call lux- 
urious,” said Felix, “but it was very clean, and 
I had a bed and plenty to eat. They do not 
7 have many visitors, except a few people of 
their own faith. But Vernon begged me to 
stay. Dying men have— these whims some- 
times. Of course it was only a whim. He 
exaggerated anything I had been able to do 
for him in quite an absurd manner.” He 
stopped, for now he was definitely aware that 
she lacked sympathy, and the knowledge gave 
him a stab that was like a sword entering into 
his heart. He had believed that she would 


128 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


always sympathize and understand, and, if 
necessary, forgive. Only there should never 
be anything to forgive! He said in a con- 
strained tone : “What did you do at Molling- 
mere after I left? Was the weather very 
bad?” 

“The day you left I drove in to Brighton 
with Sir Henry. We lunched and spent part 
of the afternoon there. Yesterday it rained 
all day. I only went out for a little after tea 
with Genevieve. To-day I came home.” 

She made the recital in a tired, mechanical 
voice. 

“I — I am afraid — you did not enjoy it 
much,” he hazarded. 

“I didn’t care much for those two last 
days,” she returned with a frankness that 
wounded him afresh. “You see, Sir Henry 
didn’t like your staying like that at Cossoway. 
But I am sure you couldn’t help it. Dying 
men have their whims as you say — and are apt 
to be exigeant!” 

“He is so bigoted — so absurdly intolerant!” 
said Felix, warmly; “just because Yernon was 
a priest he didn’t want me to show him ordi- 
nary civility.” 

“It was not only because Father Antony 
was a priest, and Cossoway a monastery. It 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


129 


was because he didn’t think you ought to have 
stayed away from home just then.” 

Felix looked at her with surprise. It 
struck him then, with a feeling akin to dismay, 
that she had ranged herself on his grandfa- 
ther’s side in this matter. She did not look 
at it from his own point of view at all. She, 
too, must blame him for leaving Mollingmere 
— for leaving her. 

“Evodia,” he said, “you are not angry with 
me about this, are you?” 

“Angry? Oh, no! That would be absurd. 
I hope you will always go and come as you 
will. But just then — it was a little humil- 
iating for me. I had to endure a good deal 
from your grandfather and Genevieve. If 
it had only been possible I should have come 
home yesterday. I wanted to, but I thought 
it would only make Sir Henry more angry 
than ever!” 

“I was simply torn in two,” he assured her; 
“I didn’t want to stay at Cossoway, yet I felt 
that I must ! But such a thing is never likely 
to happen again. All the years I have been 
at Mollingmere no Franciscan from Cossoway 
has ever penetrated there. I am very sorry 
you were hurt and annoyed — I’m afraid I 
didn’t think of that.” 


130 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


She wanted to say: “Did you ever think 
of me at all?” But she was silent, and a little 
flush of anger deepened in her face. He 
seemed so unconscious that he had neglected 
her. Yet she felt as if the disagreeable im- 
pression left upon her mind by that first visit 
to Mollingmere could never be effaced by any 
subsequent happiness. 

“And, in a way, I should have been sorry 
to miss all that I experienced at Cossoway. It 
made a very great impression upon me. Of 
course,” he went on eagerly, “I wish it had 
happened at any other time. But to see him 
suffering so long — so severely — yet so gladly 
— it made death seem a different thing — not 
something to be dreaded, but to be anticipated 
with joy! He was so sure of Heaven and of 
God’s mercy — so glad to die ; even the thought 
of purgatory, in which he so firmly believed, 
didn’t frighten him. He had the faith of a 
child — and Vernon was considered one of the 
cleverest men of his year at Oxford.” 

“Yes — I am sure it was all very impressive,” 
she said, coldly; “all their ceremonies always 
are, I believe, or else how could the Roman 
Church attract people in the way it does? I 
can’t help thinking all that sort of fuss is a 
little forced and melodramatic and un-Eng- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


131 


lish. Wouldn’t he have died more peacefully 
without all these rites and ceremonies?” 

“It didn’t seem at all forced and melo- 
dramatic, but quite simple and earnest,” Felix 
said, thoughtfully. “The prayers for the dy- 
ing comforted him; he seemed to listen to them 
as long as he was conscious. The Father 
Guardian received his last confession, and gave 
him extreme unction and the Viaticum. And 
he died with his brothers in religion kneeling 
round and praying the saints and angels to 
lead his soul into Paradise !” 

Evodia rose from her seat and wandered a 
little restlessly up and down the room. She 
was tired to death of the whole subject. Pos- 
sibly it was only a passing phase, but ob- 
viously Felix had been profoundly impressed 
by all he had seen and heard at Cossoway; 
he showed no disposition to speak of anything 
else. She believed that it had not been so much 
the whim of a dying man that had detained 
him there as a crafty ruse on the part of the 
Guardian to keep him at Cossoway, that he 
might be thus impressed and influenced. And 
he was too unsuspecting to perceive it; he had 
fallen quite blindly into the trap, had believed 
that in staying he was only indulging the ca- 
price of a dying man! 


13a 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


Much as she had wanted to see Felix again, 
she heartily wished now that he would go away 
and leave her. Things were out of tune be- 
tween them, and while he was still so full of 
his sojourn at Cossoway there could be no 
hope of improving matters. It would soon 
pass, she felt sure, and then he would return 
to her with the whole-hearted allegiance of 
which she had been so proud. 

He was so strangely far from realizing the 
enormity of his offense. She wished he could 
have heard samples of the speeches of Sir 
Henry, Genevieve, Lady Beaufoy! That 
would presently be rectified by his grandfather, 
who was not likely to spare him. 

“I have one or two things to do,” he told 
her; “I’d better go out and see about them. 
You still want me to stay here — and dine?” he 
added half wistfully. 

“Of course,” she answered; “Aunt Susan 
and my cousins would think it very strange if 
you didn’t. You don’t feel too much upset about 
Mr. Vernon’s death, do you? If he had been 
a very intimate friend you could have made it 
an excuse. Otherwise it would be a little dif- 
ficult to explain.” 

Felix took her hand and drew her a little 
towards him. Stooping, he kissed her. She 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


133 


was so passive and unresisting that he felt in- 
tuitively that she had not desired that embrace ; 
she had simply submitted. Remembering the 
passionate kisses they had exchanged on the 
terrace at Mollingmere, he turned abruptly 
away. Difficult to explain! Her words had 
lashed him into something like self-reproach. 
He had been guilty of neglect — of want of 
thought! It had hurt her; no wonder she was 
cold and unresponsive. He had made her suf- 
fer. Was anything in the world worth this? 
Had she felt humbled and shamed before every 
one at Mollingmere ? He had shown himself in 
the first days of their engagement an indiffer- 
ent and neglectful lover. But for the future. 
. . . Happily there was the whole future in 
which to make amends — to wipe out the re- 
membrance. 

“But he is dull, isn’t he?” said Milly to her 
sister as they drove home together after the 
dinner-party, which had been given in honor 
of the engagement. “He hardly uttered one 
word. And I don’t think Eve looks one bit 
happy. Do you think she is marrying him for 
his money? Jim says he is sure that is the 
reason.” 

“They certainly seemed very depressed,” 


134 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

said Sophy, “but Mamma told me he’d been 
away with a sick friend, who only died yester- 
day, so perhaps that accounts for his looking 
so wretched. Only, it wasn’t a very great 
friend, Mamma says!” 

Milly gave a little sniff. “I don’t believe 
it will ever come off,” she said. “Eve is be- 
ginning to see that she has made a mistake. 
How could Mamma ever imagine that she was 
happy? She distinctly said she was, if you re- 
member !” 

“Oh, I think they like each other quite well 
enough,” said Sophy. “I daresay they will 
get on quite as well as most people.” 

“Ah, but you were never really in love with 
Axel!” said Milly, spitefully. 

But when, later on Sophy consulted Axel, 
he said: “Milly is quite right. Evodia is 
marrying him for his money. He is in love 
with her, and is quite content with the crumbs. 
She has seen Sir Henry, and she doesn’t alto- 
gether like the prospect of living in the same 
house with him. That does not surprise me, 
I confess. I have seen many examples of be- 
trothed bliss,” he added sagely, “but never one 
which gave quite such a chilling impression!” 


CHAPTER X 

T he next fortnight passed uneventfully. 

Felix’s goings and comings between 
Mollingmere and Curzon Street were frequent 
and a little bewildering. Peace was perfectly 
restored, and he and Evodia had resumed their 
old harmonious intercourse. Sir Henry, it is 
true, had unloosed the pent-up wrath of five 
days upon his grandson, when he first reap- 
peared at Mollingmere after the Cossoway 
episode. Felix was not a little surprised at 
the vehemence of this anger; he had sincerely 
believed that Father Antony’s tragically sud- 
den death would have in some measure ab- 
solved him. He found that far from this 
weighing in the least, his grandfather’s anger 
was increased at the idea that he should not 
only have been present, but should have wit- 
nessed the “mumming” inseparable from such 
an event. Nor had he been able to disguise the 
fact that, far from feeling revolted by the ex- 
hibition of such superstitious practices, he had 
actually sympathized with it, and had allowed 

135 


136 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


himself to be impressed by the solemnity with 
which the death of the friar had been invested. 
Sir Henry, suspecting him of having been per- 
manently entrapped by the “intriguing friars,” 
had been particularly violent in his uncon- 
trolled fury. The storm had lasted for two 
miserable days, during which Genevieve’s tri- 
umph was complete. She had played a 
trump card with some effect, having delicately 
conveyed to Sir Henry that at no very re- 
mote date she and Keith hoped to present him 
with a great-grandchild. The intelligence de- 
lighted him, and induced him to look upon her 
far more favorably. She was encouraged to 
take care of her health, to stay in bed, not to 
over-exert herself. She began to try and please 
the old man, to consult his wishes, to defer 
to him. She had a not unnatural wish that 
Keith should be re-instated in favor; also his 
letters continued to betray a state of acute 
financial distress. One day Sir Henry gave 
her a cheque, which Genevieve immediately 
forwarded to her husband to meet the claims 
of his more pressing creditors. He wrote 
back telling her that she had played her cards 
well, that she was even cleverer than he had 
thought her, but added that it seemed “a bit 
rough on poor old Felix,” whom he secretly 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


137 


scorned for his inability to extract any real 
amusement from life. 

Felix saw at a glance that his star for the 
moment was no longer in the ascendant; he 
had never seriously annoyed his grandfather 
before, and he winced a little under the flail 
of his words. He was bitterly repentant, too, 
for having exposed Evodia to so much un- 
pleasantness. But he bore it all with marvel- 
ous self-control, neither excusing himself 
after his first brief explanation nor showing 
any anger in his replies. He could not blame 
himself for what he had done; common charity 
seemed to have demanded it of him; but for 
Evodia’s sake he was self-reproachful; it had 
been altogether wrong to expose her to the 
intemperate anger of his grandfather. He re- 
turned to town a few days later in a penitent 
mood that touched Evodia. And since then 
everything had gone on with harmony and 
happiness. The date of their marriage was 
definitely fixed for the end of April; it was to 
be as soon after Easter as possible. 

One day he said to her: “Some — friends of 
mine — in Somersetshire have asked me to 
spend a few days with them. I thought of 
going next week.” 

“Aunt Susan says I shall never be ready un- 


1S8 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


less you go away next week,” she answered, 
laughing, “so perhaps it would be better to ar- 
range it.” 

As he had mentioned no name, she added: 
“They are great friends of yours, I suppose?” 

“Oh, no!” said Felix, “but I promised to go 
there, if I could find time.” 

There was a suggestion of mystery in his 
manner, which provoked her into saying: 
“No more dying Franciscans, I hope, Felix?” 

Felix smiled. “Ah! you can’t forget Cos- 
soway,” he said; “you are almost as bad as my 
grandfather!” 

“I shall do a great deal while you are away, 
and you must come back soon. They won’t 
expect you to stay very long just now, will 
they?” 

“If I go on Monday I could come back on 
Thursday, unless Lady Beaufoy insists upon 
getting rid of me for the whole week.” 

“Oh, Aunt Susan is really very reasonable,” 
said Evodia. 

She saw him off at Paddington that Mon- 
day morning, without any misgiving in her 
heart. It wanted now only five weeks to their 
wedding, and her time was fully occupied, get- 
ting her trousseau finished, answering letters, 
and acknowledging presents. There was not 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


139 


really much time in which to miss Felix, though 
she grudged him a little to these unknown 
Somersetshire friends. She wished he had 
only gone back to Mollingmere. 

“Evodia does not seem to mind,” said Lady 
Beaufoy to her daughter Milly, who was lunch- 
ing with her. “I sometimes wonder if she 
cares for Felix quite as much as one thought!” 

“Sophy and I both thought the bloom had 
been rubbed off a little by that first visit to 
Mollingmere,” replied Milly. 

She was wearing a huge hat, with a great 
stuffed owl on it; this bird seemed to possess 
a strange resemblance to its wearer, with its 
round, unspeculative eyes — a look in which 
shrewdness and fatuity were artfully blended. 

“It seems to me quite extraordinary,” she 
continued, “that Felix should remain so long 
with these friends in Somersetshire! You say 
he intended to stay four days, and he has been 
there already a fortnight, and has twice post- 
poned his return.” 

“It is all very worrying,” said Lady Beau- 
foy; “Axel has already been here this morning 
suggesting that there must be some . . . en- 
tanglement. ... I encouraged him to go, in 
the first place, as I thought Evodia would get 


140 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


on better with her things if she had a whole 
clear week.” 

“And Felix preferred a whole clear fort- 
night,” said Milly, with unconscious mimicry 
of her mother’s tones. “Does he write 
regularly? Are you sure that Evodia does 
not really mind?” 

“He writes fairly regularly, I believe,” said 
Lady Beaufoy; “and I don’t think she seems 
to mind. But then she never says much, and 
I never like to ask her many questions. She 
didn’t like it much when I expressed surprise 
that Felix should have left Mollingmere dur- 
ing her first visit there — it was such an odd 
sort of thing for a man to do, wasn’t it? 
There was some story then about a dying 
priest — such a flimsy excuse!” 

“But he is really coming back this after- 
noon?” said Milly. 

“That was the latest arrangement, but, of 
course, he may change his mind again.” 

“Something must be wrong,” said Milly, 
shaking her head. The owl in her hat shook, 
too, accentuating the likeness between them. 
“Where is Evodia?” 

“She has gone to lunch with Sophy. Axel 
is playing golf. But I expect them all here 
to tea,” said Lady Beaufoy, who was now over- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


141 


whelmingly anxious about Felix. Where was 
he? What was he doing? Why was he so 
mysterious? Above all, why did he not come 
back? 

Nor was she greatly deceived by Evodia’s 
outward tranquillity and indifference. “I 
don’t believe she knows much more about his 
movements than I do myself,” she said to her- 
self. This was true, for Felix did not excel 
as a letter-writer, and he gave but little ac- 
count of his movements. Twice he had post- 
poned his return, once for three days, then 
for another week. The time had lengthened 
into nearly a fortnight. What could he be 
doing? Evodia felt a very natural anxiety, 
and there was nothing in his letters to mitigate 
it. She began to tell herself that since that 
first misunderstanding about Cossoway he had 
never been quite the same to her. 

There was to be a dinner-party that night 
at the Templetons. Lady Templeton was an 
invalid aunt of Lady Beaufoy, and she was 
giving the party in honor of the betrothed 
pair. It was therefore a matter of really im- 
perative necessity that Felix should return in 
time to be present at it. Lady Templeton 
was not a person to be treated with disrespect. 
She was extremely old-fashioned and punctiL 


142 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


ious, and disliked modern ways. She ap- 
proved of Felix on account of his agreeable 
manners. 

Evodia returned home about four o’clock 
with Sophy, hoping to find that Felix would 
have already arrived. But he was not there, 
when she entered the drawing-room. Lady 
Beaufoy was talking to Milly and Axel; the 
presence of the latter filled Evodia with some- 
thing like dismay. She was feeling very tired, 
very dispirited; the April day was both cold 
and gloomy; there had been several heavy 
showers and the pavements were dark with 
rain. No one had hitherto mentioned her 
laggard lover, and she had studiously avoided 
the subject, but now she knew that Axel would 
not be slow to remedy this omission. There 
he sat in the largest and most comfortable 
armchair; his stoutness gave him a look of 
peculiar immovability, as if he intended to re- 
main there for hours — perhaps days! One 
could never feel about him that soon — 
quite soon — he would get up and go 
away! 

“And how is Felix?” he said, turning his 
pale, keen, and rather glassy eyes to Evodia, 
with a remorseless gaze. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


145 


“He has not yet arrived,” she said calmly; 
“but I believe he is quite well.” 

“My dear Evodia,” he said, in a fatherly 
tone; “Felix would not be so late if he could 
see you. You are in great good looks , as the 
halfpenny papers so happily phrase it!” 

“Am I?” she laughed; “I feel torn to pieces 
by the wind!” 

“When I was in love,” continued Axel, “and 
the day specified for my return to Sophy 
came, I used to appear always at breakfast 
time. Did not I, dear belle-mere?” he said, 
turning to Lady Beaufoy. 

Before she could answer Milly interposed 
with: “You seemed to be here eternally. I 
cannot remember your going away — even for 
a week, Axel.” 

“Can’t you?” said Axel, with ominous calm. 

“You never left Sophy a moment’s peace — 
she used to say.” 

But he interrupted her, with a silencing 
wave of his fat, white hand: “Pardon me — 
Sophy’s pre-nuptial speeches have no interest 
for me!” 

His sister-in-law collapsed, crimson-faced, 
beneath his regard, so coldly contemptuous. 
Invariably he provoked her into a display of 
tactlessness. Her only satisfaction now lay 


144 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


in the pleasing consciousness that she had 
wounded him. He knew that she had been in 
Sophy’s confidence during those very trying 
days when Sophy was engaged in the unspeak- 
able process he was wont to call “jibbing.” It 
galled him to think that any one should know 
that his wife had yielded to persuasion, to 
worldly motives, in the matter of marrying 
him. She was fond of him now in her 
own way — was indeed perfectly happy — but 
he had not been able to forget. His self-love 
had received a wound, from which it had never 
quite recovered, and Milly had opened it 
afresh. 

Evodia said calmly: “Felix could not have 
been here at breakfast time, however anxious 
he may have been to see me! He has been 
staying at an out-of-the-way place in Somer- 
setshire — it is a long journey.” 

“Learn a lesson,” said Axel, addressing 
Milly, “in making appropriate and charitable 
explanations and excuses for the poor absent 
ones who cannot defend themselves!” 

Milly proclaimed stoutly: “I am thankful 
to say that Jim never required to be explained 
nor excused!” 

“I have observed those excellent domestic 
qualities in your husband!” said Axel, ma- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


145 


liciously; “I trust they may be reproduced in 
your solid little son!” 

There was a welcome interruption in the 
shape of tea, and Axel applied himself to it 
with all the demeanor of a hungry man, who 
had neither breakfasted nor lunched, and had 
small hope of dining. Evodia glanced nerv- 
ously at the clock. What was making Felix 
so late? Was there yet another telegram on 
its way telling her that his return was again 
deferred? She was thankful when tea was 
over and Milly said to her: “Eve, I want you 
to show me that screen Lina Carson sent you 
for a wedding present.” 

The cousins left the room together, Milly 
slipping her arm into Evodia’s. “I get so 
tired of seeing Axel eating muffins,” she said; 
“what a monster he is!” 

Evodia’s sitting-room was halfway down 
the stairs and across the width of a small pass- 
age. Before their respective marriages it had 
belonged to Milly and Sophy, but Evodia had 
now filled it with her own furniture. Her 
books lined the walls; there was a fine piano 
which she had brought from her own home, 
and there were some good prints and water- 
colors. In the early days of her engagement 
Felix had given her a little marqueterie bureau, 


146 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


which she had once admired, and this stood 
in a corner adorned with fresh flowers and a 
large photograph of Felix. A big pink 
azalea in a Chelsea pot lent a note of soft 
color. The walls were cream-tinted and the 
carpet was of a soft gray; it was a charming 
and reposeful room. When the screen had 
been duly inspected Milly departed. 

Evodia was glad to be alone; she felt she 
would rather see Felix here than in the draw- 
ing-room under the lynx-like scrutiny of Axel 
Maltravers. Lately her hours of quiet and 
solitude had been but few. She was physic- 
ally tired and more than a little anxious. 

A fire was burning on the hearth, and she 
drew a chair close to it and sat down, leaning 
her head on her hand and watching the great 
burning logs that gave out a pleasant aromatic 
odor. Then she took up a book and made an 
idle pretense of reading. 

The week of Felix’s intended absence had 
been gradually extended into nearly a fort- 
night. She was aware that the subject had 
been freely discussed by her aunt and cousins, 
as well as by James and Axel. Her grave 
manner had rendered questioning a little diffi- 
cult, but she knew that Axel had said as much 
as he had dared this afternoon. She had been 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


m 


glad to escape from his fish-like eye! She 
could not help observing too that Lady Beau- 
foy was filled with a quite obvious anxiety. 
She had caught her looking at her once or 
twice with a preoccupied air, as if she dimly 
discerned things were not going well. Was 
Felix slipping away? Had he been too 
hurried in asking her to be his wife — had he 
found already that it had been a mistake? 
Had she failed to retain that love — so easily 
— so quickly won? Looking back she could 
again feel sure that she could fix an arbitrary 
date to this subtle change in him. It was the 
date of Father Antony’s strange and unex- 
pected arrival at Mollingmere. Until then 
there had been complete harmony. After- 
wards things had resumed — more or less — 
their normal course. But she had felt the ex- 
istence of an intangible change in him. She 
had tried in vain to persuade herself that it 
was the figment of her own imagination. She 
had tried to analyze it and failed. And now 
— this evening — when he came back — what 
would he say? He had written to her last two 
days ago, when he had definitely fixed his ar- 
rival for this afternoon. She supposed him 
to be still in Somersetshire; it was unlikely 
that he would have passed through town first 


148 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

on his way to Mollingmere without coming to 
see her. 

All this week she had yielded to the en- 
treaties of Sophy and Lady Beaufoy and had 
shopped endlessly with them. She had meekly 
surrendered when they had urged her to buy 
this blouse or that hat. And all the time her 
mind had been completely possessed by one 
thought — the thought of Felix. What was he 
doing? Why did he not write? It was in- 
tolerable! If he would only come! She 
would rather learn the truth now — at once. 

Hortense came in and drew down the blinds. 
She had been maid to Evodia’s mother and was 
greatly attached to her. Outside it was al- 
ready dusk, and the sky was fading to a dull 
somber purple, across which large rain-clouds 
were drifting slowly. Hortense hesitated, her 
hand on the blind. 

“Shall I take mademoiselle’s hat?” she said. 

“Please,” said Evodia. She rose, took off 
her hat, arranged the dark folds of her hair 
before the mirror, and wondered a little at her 
own pallor. 

“Baines told me that he had seen M. Felix 
at Paddington yesterday afternoon, made- 
moiselle,” she said slowly. 

She still regarded Evodia more or less as a 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


149 


child to be tended. And the conduct of M. 
Felix had not of late satisfied her. 

A faint color came into the pale face. 

“Did he?” she said indifferently. 

Mr. Baines, the butler, had also expressed 
his dissatisfaction, and a recital of the events 
that had occurred at Mollingmere, which had 
lost nothing in the vivid narrative of Hortense, 
had confirmed his disapproval of the Scaife 
family in general. 

Hortense took the hat and veil and left the 
room noiselessly. 

“She should know that he does not treat her 
as he ought,” she said to herself, as she left 
the room. Like many old servants, she was 
jealous of change. No one in her eyes would 
have been good enough for her young mistress, 
and the prospect of life at Mollingmere had 
not attracted her ; it promised to be too dull. 

Evodia resumed her seat by the fire. At 
Paddington? So he had been in London only 
yesterday, and he had not come to see her. 
She roused herself roughly. “I am making a 
mountain out of this mole-hill,” she said aloud ; 
“even the servants seem to be doing the same 
thing. Sir Henry probably sent for him sud- 
denly.” 


150 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


She heard the sudden tuff -tuff of a taxi-cab 
in the street outside; the sound seemed to stop 
abruptly, and, drawing aside the blind, she 
could see some one descend and run lightly up 
the steps to the front door. It was certainly 
Felix; in the dim light she felt sure of his tall, 
straight figure, his boyish, agile movements. 
Her heart beat suffocatingly, she felt as if its 
throbs must be audible. But she rose with 
great outward calmness when Felix came into 
the room. 

In the sharp glare of the electric light she 
saw that his face was very pale, and even more 
grave than usual ; indeed, it seemed to her that 
the gravity was a veritable mask, assumed so 
that no indication should possibly be given of 
what was passing in his mind. Vaguely, too, 
he gave her the impression that he had been 
very ill. Was this the explanation? She had 
a wild fear, for the moment, that he had just 
discovered that he was suffering from some 
incurable malady. Her imagination, stimu- 
lated by his silence, his long-unexplained ab- 
sence, was in a condition to play strange tricks 
with her. If she could but curb her strange 
suspicions, and see in him again only the Felix 
she had known so well and loved so devotedly, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


151 


and of whose love she had felt so sure! Ob- 
viously he was tired; his face looked thin 
and worn, as if he had been suffering from 
privation, exhaustion, sleeplessness. He had 
been passing through some severe crisis . . . 
instinctively she felt that for him it would not 
be ended until he had informed her as to its 
nature. 

He put out his arms and drew her to him, 
kissing her without uttering a word, except the 
murmured sound of her name, which, on his 
lips, had always seemed to hold for her a magic 
music. She knew that the time had now come 
when he was going to explain, to lift the veil 
and chase away, once and forever, her doubt- 
ing and her fear. She was sure that it had 
been a grave, an important thing which had 
kept him so long away from her. Acutely 
sensitive, she felt that until she had heard 
what he had to say this barrier between them 
could not possibly be removed. It was some- 
thing that separated them, and isolated him. 
She seemed to see his face dimly across a mist. 
It looked unfamiliar — as if changed and 
altered. Even the touch of his hands — of his 
lips — brought with it no sense of reality. 
This was Felix, but a new Felix. Some one 


152 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


strange and apart. She longed to cry his name 
aloud — to bring him back to her — the Felix 
she had known and loved. 

Releasing her, he stood by her side near the 
fire, and held out his hands to the blaze. He 
shivered slightly. 

It was impossible to question him, to hasten 
the moment of supreme revelation, which 
surely now was near at hand. In repose his 
face looked stern and purposeful. It held a 
new energy, in spite of the chilled, fatigued 
look. The one was assuredly of the mind, the 
other belonged to the overwrought protesting 
body. 

“I am afraid I am rather late,” he said at 
last; “but I have come from Mollingmere, and 
I had so many things — unexpected things — 
to do before I left.” 

“I had an idea you were still in Somerset- 
shire. You did not say you were leaving there 
before to-day.” 

“I left Westonside yesterday, and went 
straight back to Mollingmere,” he answered. 

She ventured timidly: “I hope you found 
Sir Henry well?” 

“He is quite well, thank you,” said Felix. 

“Did you have a pleasant time at Weston- 
side?” she asked. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


153 


“Yes — ” he said, hesitatingly. Then his 
dark eyes met hers squarely — almost with a 
flash of defiance. “You see, during the last 
week of my stay there I — I was in retreat!” 

“In retreat?” she echoed. “What do you 
mean by that, Felix?” 

“Westonside is a Franciscan monastery — 
like Cossoway,” he said. 

Gradually shape and color were being 
evolved from that stupendous, amorphous 
darkness of doubt, fear, misgiving. But she 
was still very far from guessihg the truth. 

“There was a priest there — giving a retreat 
to myself, and one or two other men who were 
staying there, and who were also thinking of 
being received into the Catholic Church.” He 
spoke now slowly, but with marked emphasis, 
as if he were repeating a well-learned lesson. 
“I was asked only to write really necessary 
letters during the retreat — it is a time set apart 
for — for more spiritual things. That is why 
I did not write often or at much length to 
you, Evodia. I — I could not tell you before. 
It came into my mind to do this when I went 
to Cossoway — when I saw Vernon die. I 
tried to put it from me — I tried to think 
no more of it, both for my grandfather’s 
sake and for yours. I tried to tell my- 


154 * 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


self that the feeling I had had so strongly — 
of being sent to Cossoway for a purpose — that 
I might be a witness of F ather Antony’s death 
and learn the truth from it — was a mere piece 
of sentiment — of morbid sentiment — which I 
should forget directly the very powerful im- 
pression his death had left on my mind should v 
have faded. But I did not succeed in for- 
getting.” 

It seemed to Evodia throughout this recital 
that she must be dreaming, and that in her 
dream Felix had come to tell her of this hor- 
rible thing, which she would recognize as false 
directly she awoke. But the quiet voice went 
on speaking, and the words fell like a succes- 
sion of little hammers beating pitilessly on her 
brain. 

“Evodia, when my decision had to be made 
I did not dare refuse the grace that had been 
offered to me. I did not dare reject the light 
and the truth I had been given so — so 
miraculously! I hope,” he went on, “ that you 
can see it in the same light — that you too think 
it would have been wrong to reject anything 
so imperative.” 

He would have touched her hand, but she 
drew it away sharply. His touch was just 
then exactly what she was least able to bear. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


155 


She clasped her hands tightly together and 
stared into the fire, with a rather hard, fixed 
look. 

“I went back to Cossoway on my way here 
from Mollingmere about three weeks ago,” he 
went on. “I had a long talk with the Father 
Guardian. I had not told him before — any- 
thing — that I had felt. But this time I told 
him about my home — the circumstances in 
which I was placed, of my approaching mar- 
riage. He lent me some books to read — he 
begged me not to be in a hurry — to reflect well. 
I read the books. I was more miserable than 
I can tell you. I felt that it was making an 
indefinable barrier between us. I used to 
wonder if you had noticed — ” 

“Ever since you came back from Cossoway 
the first time I had noticed it!” she said, bit- 
terly. 

“So you felt — that there was something?” 

“I was not the only one. Aunt Susan and 
Sophy and Milly have all been wondering — 
as openly as they dared — what it was that kept 
you away so long!” 

“The Father Guardian advised me to go to 
Westonside,” he continued; “and, if possible, 
make the Retreat. He thought it would help 
me to come to a better knowledge of my own 


156 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


heart. I went, only intending to spend a few 
days there, but, as you know, I remained 
longer — I went through all the Retreat — I 
followed the exercises closely; I went to 
Mass every day. I studied and read, and 
learned the Catechism — as a child would have 
done.” 

4 ‘And now — you are going to be a Roman 
Catholic?” she asked. 

He looked at her. “I am a Catholic,” he 
said, quietly; “I was received two days ago at 
Westonside.” 

There was a long silence. At last she said : 
“Why did you not tell me?” 

“It was impossible to tell any one until I 
had told my grandfather. I felt that I owed 
him that.” His voice now resumed its careful, 
mechanical tone. “He was, of course, very 
angry. I knew he would be very angry, but 
I thought he would forgive me, because we 
have always been so much to each other. I 
have looked upon him almost as my own father. 
I have lived with him since I was about six 
years old. It was natural that he should be 
displeased. . . . Evodia, I had better tell you 
what he said. . . .” 

He waited, hesitating. After all, it was 
difficult to tell her, more difficult than he had 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 157 

supposed. She said indifferently: “What did 
he say?” 

“He said that I must leave Mollingmere to- 
day and never return. He only permitted me 
to stay there last night because it was so late, 
and I had to see to the packing of my things. 
He has stopped my allowance. I am not to 
look to him for anything in the future. He 
is going to leave Mollingmere and all his 
money to Keith. He has already, as a 
younger son, my mother’s fortune. At my 
grandfather’s death I shall inherit the empty 
title.” 

There was a long pause, and a heavy 
silence fell upon the little room. Even the 
light clatter of a hansom going down the street 
sounded quite loud across the silence. 

“Why have you done this? You must be — 
mad/' said Evodia. 

He did not answer. 

“Do you not think you have been unfair — 
most unfair — to me?” 

“I am sorry — that you should think that,” 
he said, slowly, but his eyes did not meet hers. 

“If you had this in your mind — as you must 
have had — for a long time — you must also 
have foreseen Sir Henry’s displeasure — that 
you would not be — in a position to marry.” 


158 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“I did not have this in my mind in the very 
least when I asked you to be my wife . . . 
nothing could ever have been more remote 
from my thoughts. I tell you it only came to 
me at Cossoway. And then it came with such 
force that I could not resist — I was obliged 
to set all worldly — all temporal questions — 
aside.” 

“You had also to set me aside,” said Evodia. 

“It was a hard sacrifice to make,” he said, 
“the knowledge that my action might even 
cause our marriage to be temporarily post- 
poned. But that lies in your hands. I hope 
you will not wish to postpone it at all. It 
can take place on the day fixed, but we must, 
of course, be married in the Catholic Church.” 

Evodia’s eyes shone with a strange light. 
She looked attentively at F elix. She saw him 
with a sudden new understanding; she felt 
that never before had she known him or un- 
derstood him at all. He was a stranger, pos- 
sessing none of those qualities with which her 
fancy had endowed him. He was a man of 
impulse — swift to love — swift to change, easily 
influenced, easily led. Swayed by blind im- 
pulses that counted no cost. He had not 
spared his grandfather ; he had not spared her. 
He had been remorseless in his seeking of this 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


159 


new thing which had pleased him, attracted 
him. He had flung aside his heritage, as if it 
had been dross, telling no one, asking no ad- 
vice, except the advice of persons to whose 
interest it was that he should yield. His 
goodly heritage that he had wished her to share 
had gone from him — as straw before the wind. 
He stood empty-handed before her. If he 
had ever counted the cost in that time of blind 
infatuation he must have seen that, with his 
heritage, he had also flung aside all their hopes 
of marriage and happiness. He was a pauper, 
an outcast from the home of his fathers. 
While she had thought him to be a man of 
strong will, self -controlled, reliable, he was in 
reality emotional, weak, unstable as water. 

“We need not call the postponement even 
temporary,” she said. 

At these words he winced. “You do not 
mean that, Evodia?” he said. His voice held 
a vibrating emotion that touched her in spite 
of herself. 

“I mean — I would not be married in a 
Catholic Church. You have deliberately made 
our marriage impossible from every point of 
view! You have told me how absolutely de- 
pendent you were on your grandfather; you 
knew — even I did — how strong his religious 


160 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


prejudices are, and, in spite of this, you have 
defied him. He is not likely to forgive 
you. But, I suppose, you thought it worth 
while.” 

“But I can work,” he said, eagerly; “I shall 
very soon find some employment — l^ve got 
enough to live on until then, and you know 
I have about two hundred a year of my own. 
We shall not starve. And we can live on very 
little. With what we have between us we 
shall manage all right — perhaps even we 
should be happier in a little home of our own 
than living with my grandfather at Molling- 
mere !” 

In all his fears, this fear of losing her ulti- 
mately had never entered. It would have 
seemed to him a disloyal thought — an act of 
injustice towards her of whose love he felt so 
sure. 

She was silent; it seemed as if she hardly 
heard him. Her hands still lay clenched in 
her lap. Very little of her face was visible, 
except the delicate pale curve of her brow, 
where it met the thick soft waves of dark hair. 
Of what was she thinking? Did she not real- 
ize how great this thing had been — for which 
he had given up all that he had? Had he not 
counted the cost of building his tower lest his 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 161 

enemies should mock and say he were unable 
to finish? 

His words fell meaninglessly on her ears. 
It was idle for him to make plans for a future 
which he had wilfully destroyed. He had 
permitted something vital and permanent to 
come between them and estrange them. He 
had done what was to her a foolish — a mad 
thing; and he stood before her a beggar. If 
he had only confided in her, consulted her, she 
felt sure that she could have persuaded him 
to defer the step, to wait for a more propitious 
moment. She would have entreated him to 
do it — if it must be done — more tactfully, 
more prudently — perhaps after his grandfath- 
er’s death! She would, at least, have urged 
him to be more considerate in his manner of 
breaking the news to Sir Henry. But if he 
had gone to Mollingmere yesterday, and in- 
formed his grandfather in the rough, abrupt 
way in which he had told the news to her, it 
was small wonder that Sir Henry should have 
answered a fool according to his folly! 

It was the mad, unreasonable foolishness of 
it that filled her with dismay, as well as with 
contempt and anger. With shame, too, that 
she could have permitted herself to care for 
any one who was capable of such an impulsive, 


162 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


unconsidered action. She seemed already to 
hear Milly and Sophy’s lightly spoken disdain, 
as well as her aunt’s more bitter displeasure. 
The women who composed Evodia’s world 
were essentially mundane, and she had all along 
been aware that they had approved of her en- 
gagement less on account of the personality 
of the man she had chosen than for the pos- 
sessions he had been able to offer her. But 
apart from poverty — of which she had no fear 
— she could not now marry him. It seemed 
to her that he was nothing that she had ever 
believed him to be ; the qualities which she had 
imagined he possessed were lacking in his char- 
acter. 

“Evodia — it is not possible that you won’t 
take the risk.” He spoke sharply. 

“I was not thinking of that risk,” she an- 
swered. 

“I am certain to find some work almost at 
once. I don’t want our marriage to be post- 
poned for a single day!” 

“You are making a mistake,” she said; “I 
am not thinking of the money. I could never 
marry a Catholic!” 

“You are going to break off our engage- 
ment?” he said. 

He felt a sensation almost of faintness — an 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 163 

actual physical feeling of a cold hand laid on 
his heart. 

“You have left me no choice! If you had 
wanted to force me to do so you could not have 
imagined a better plan!” 

“Oh!” he said, suddenly; “it cannot mean 
that I am going to lose you too !” 

His mind dwelt upon the parable of the man 
who sold all that he had in order to purchase 
the pearl of great price. Had he, too, found 
himself standing in the midst of as sudden and 
as great a desolation, surveying that solitary 
treasure for which all things else had been 
forfeited? 

“Did you never contemplate the possibility?” 
she said. “Did you never think, for instance, 
what Aunt Susan would say?” 

“Even if I had thought of it, I should have 
put the thought aside. I believed that you 
cared for me — a little. Not as I cared for you 
— but still a little.” 

“I think I cared for another Felix Scaife,” 
she said; “you seem a stranger to me now. 
You have put so much between us! I am be- 
wildered. Imagine my position when I tell 
Aunt Susan. She will say that it is all my 
own fault for not having consulted her, in the 
first instance, about our engagement!” 


164 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“Your aunt is a very worldly woman, I 
know,” he said, “but I did not think she in- 
fluenced you. She will now only confirm your 
wisdom in breaking it off.” 

“My reasons are not only ^orldly ones. 
You have fallen under influences I had not 
foreseen. Why did you keep me in the dark 
about this step you meant to take? Didn’t I 
deserve your confidence?” 

“It seemed to concern only myself,” he said. 

“Why have you done it?” There was a 
note in her voice now that betrayed pain. 
Why, indeed, had he destroyed all her happi- 
ness so recklessly — so thoughtlessly? 

“I had to. At least you will believe that!” 

“Some one at Westonside or at Cossoway 
overpersuaded you. They have a way — 
these priests! Sir Henry will see the wisdom 
of his prejudices!” 

“No one persuaded me. I went to Weston- 
side of my own free will to learn.” 

“If you had only come here first to tell 
me!” 

“It would have made no difference,” he 
said; “I might have consented to postpone the 
step for a day or two, but even that is hardly 
likely.” 

“You were in an emotional, overwrought 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


165 


mood when you stayed at Cossoway that first 
time, and F ather Antony’s death made a mor- 
bid impression on you. If you had waited a 
little longer it would have passed away — you 
would have become your normal self!” 

He said quietly: “I told you that I tried 
to wait — to forget. But it would have been 
very wicked of me to remain outside the 
Church after I had seen and learned her truth 
for myself! I should have felt that I was 
fighting against God. I could not refuse, and 
I could not disobey. You see what I have 
lost. Do you think a man deliberately runs 
the risk of forfeiting all that he has for the sake 
of a whim — a caprice — a mere piece of morbid 
sentiment? I have lost Mollingmere and my 
grandfather’s affection and friendship. You 
tell me that I have lost you also. I am dis- 
possessed of everything! And do you think 
if I could have all these things back to-morrow, 
including your love, by foregoing what I have 
just received, that I would forego it? If I 
could say ‘y es ’ to that I should never have de- 
served your love! I should have been wholly 
unworthy of you!” 

His passionate words aroused within her a 
new sense of desolation. He had loved her, 
it is true, but she had had only the second 


166 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


place. He loved her still ; she could not doubt 
it, but there were things he would not sacrifice 
to keep her. She rose. Her brain was in a 
whirl ; she felt numbed, bewildered by the sud- 
denness of it all, as well as T)y the immense 
desolation that blotted out all her future hap- 
piness. 

“It is true,” he said, “that I have very little 
to offer you now in comparison. But, as you 
know — my love is yours unalterably.” 

He looked at her; she stood in front of him, 
silent, immovable, as if she did not hear him. 

“I shall go back to Westonside to-morrow 
and remain there until I am able to make pre- 
cise plans for the future.” 

“Oh!” she cried, stung into speech by his 
calmness, “how can you be so cruel? To me — 
to your grandfather — to us all? You seem to 
have thought only of yourself!” 

Her dark eyes blazed with passion, but 
Felix remained quite unmoved; he had him- 
self well in hand. His pale and handsome 
face was cold and still as a graven image. 

“I am very sorry you should think me cruel, 
Evodia,” he said. 

She remembered that evening at Molling- 
mere when they had walked up and down the 
terrace — when he had assured her that nothing 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


167 


could hurt or separate them as long as they 
loved each other. And she had loved him. A 
kind of cold shame came over her as she re- 
membered how she had trembled to hear his 
approaching footstep, how difficult it had 
been for her voice to keep steady, her eyes 
grave and calm. Always she had been afraid 
for him to see how greatly she had cared. She 
could not accept love lightly, as Milly and 
Sophy and Genevieve had been able to do. 
And now she wished, too, that she could have 
been more indifferent, less serious. And was 
not the climax of bitterness touched now, that 
they were parting amid such bitter words of 
mutual reproach — and on her side of anger — 
almost of hatred? Was this to be the end of 
a dream, magical in its beauty, in its soft, po- 
etic grace and charm? Still, it was better, 
perhaps, to end it brutally, violently, than to 
watch the slow dying of love — of the heart’s 
desire. Across the silence Felix was speak- 
ing to her. “Evodia, may I say this now? I 
love you very much — you are the only woman 
I have ever wished to marry. And if you send 
me away because of this — I want you to know 
that it will never make any difference to my 
love — to the feeling I have for you. And if 
you should ever want me, you have only to say 


168 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


the word — and I will come. I would come 
from the ends of the earth — at your least call 
— my beloved.” 

All his voice was full of passionate appeal, 
every word came like a caress. She could not 
speak. She would not allow herself to look 
at him. She felt that prolonging of the scene 
only meant unnecessary pain. 

“Good-by,” she said, “I do not ever want 
to see you again. It is quite useless to dis- 
cuss it any more. You knew quite well what 
you were doing — you knew how it must end! 
I shall tell Aunt Susan to-morrow. And you 
are going to Westonside? I am glad you like 
it — and the people there so much! You will 
be happy with them.” 

He said: “If this is really the end, Evodia, 
I shall pray God every day to take — the im- 
age of you out of my heart.” The words of 
the Saint of olden days came into his mind; 
he repeated them almost mechanically. But 
his voice broke; there were tears in his eyes 
that seemed to shine strangely through their 
darkness. The calm of his face vanished; 
there was something terrible about it, as of a 
man undergoing some strange and unnatural 
torture. Could that prayer ever be anything 
but an idle one so long as memory remained 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


169 


to him, seeing how deeply her face was en- 
graven upon his heart? 

He moved towards the door ; he had the feel- 
ing that the world, the tender human world, 
and all that it held of faithfulness and beauty 
and love, had crumbled suddenly, as if shaken 
by some swift earthquake into irreparable ruin. 
All of her face was blurred to him; he was 
only aware that never had she looked so beau- 
tiful, that never had she seemed so much the 
woman of his dreams, and that he never loved 
her so passionately. 

He passed quickly down the stairs; as he 
came through the hall he saw Lady Beaufoy 
standing there; she had just returned from 
her drive with Sophy. He greeted her hur- 
riedly, and went quickly out into the street. 
She bestowed a dismayed glance upon his pale 
and suffering face. There was something 
about him that restrained her from making 
any effort to detain him. She stood trans- 
fixed, watching him as he walked across the 
street and disappeared. 

“They have been quarreling,” she said to her- 
self ; “I hope Evodia has not done or said any- 
thing foolish. I do not think it would be wise 
to offend him!” 


CHAPTER XI 


A fter Felix had gone Evodia resumed 
her old attitude by the fire. Numbed 
and stunned, without at first any sensation of 
pain or grief, she seemed quite unable to real- 
ize all that had happened in the short half hour 
that had passed. In place of all emotion there 
was a deadly chill, as if some strange, cold hand 
had touched all her nerves, so that they were 
no longer capable of communicating any kind 
of pain to her body. She was still sitting thus 
when the door opened and Lady Beaufoy en- 
tered the room. 

It was very seldom that Lady Beaufoy in- 
vaded Evodia’s private sanctum, wisely believ- 
ing that if two women lived always together 
they must have freedom and also space wherein 
to preserve harmony; it prevented petty fric- 
tion. Between herself and her niece there had 
always prevailed a smoothness of intercourse. 
Indeed, they had been excellent companions, 
and she had found life with Evodia far more 
tranquil and ordered than it had ever been 
when Milly and Sophy lived with her and 

170 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


171 


“rushed” from morning till night. This even- 
ing she sought Evodia for a definite purpose; 
she was actuated by an irresistible impulse, 
as well as by a very real anxiety. That meet- 
ing with Felix in the hall had re-awakened all 
her misgivings. Was there, after all — as 
Axel had suggested — some entanglement. 
There was something wrong, and from his face 
she judged it was something of an irremedia- 
ble nature. 

Evodia raised a pale but now perfectly calm 
face to her aunt. 

“Yes, Aunt Susan?” she said interroga- 
tively, half rising from her chair as she spoke. 

Lady Beaufoy waved her hand as if ab- 
solving her from the necessity of performing 
this act of formal politeness. 

“Do not get up,” she said; “unless you are 
going up to dress? You have not forgotten 
that we are dining with Cordelia Temple- 
ton?” 

“Oh, no! I hadn’t forgotten.” 

“I hope you will wear blue. Lady Temple- 
ton told me that you were one of the few dark 
people she had ever seen who could wear it 
quite successfully!” 

For, in spite of her three-score years and 
ten — she resolutely refused to acknowledge to 


172 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


any more — Lady Templeton was worldly to 
the tips of her delicately manicured finger- 
nails. She had been delighted with the suita- 
bility of Evodia’s engagement. She disliked 
Sir Henry, but was fond of both his 
grandsons, always avowing her preference 
for Keith. 

“Yes — I will wear blue,” said Evodia. 

Evodia felt a great wish that her aunt would 
go away and leave her. She wanted to post- 
pone the moment of telling her what had hap- 
pened. 

Lady Beaufoy continued to regard her with 
slightly wide-open eyes, under very interroga- 
tive brows. 

“I met Felix in the hall,” she said; “but he 
didn’t speak to me. He looked very — very 
glum!” She felt as she uttered it that the 
word was a very banal one to use in regard 
to a man who had looked as if he had been 
recently sentenced to death, but at the mo- 
ment her vocabulary failed to produce a more 
suitable one. “Have you been quarreling?” 

“No — I do not think — you could call it 
quarreling.” 

“Has anything happened, Evodia?” Lady 
Beaufoy’s curiosity was now thoroughly in the 
ascendant; her sharp eyes searched Evodia’s 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


173 


face, as if determined that the truth should no 
longer be hidden from them. 

“I can not tell you now, Aunt Susan. Per- 
haps to-morrow.” 

“I hope it is nothing serious,” said Lady 
Beaufoy; “I am sure Felix is not a man you 
can trifle with. He has not got that square 
brow and chin for nothing! It would be a 
thousand pities if you permitted any — little 
passing annoyance — to come between you!” 

“I cannot talk of it now, please, Aunt 
Susan, especially as we are dining out. F elix 
will not be able to go.” 

“But, my dear — you look ill — I am sure you 
are not well! I will telephone and say that 
you are not well enough to go. Cordelia will 
so wonder if you are there and not Felix. She 
is sure to ask us innumerable questions!” She 
thought to herself: “Imagine dining out with 
this sword of Damocles hanging over our 
heads!” 

“I am perfectly well, thank you, Aunt 
Susan. There is nothing the matter with me. 
I never felt so — so strong!” 

She rose and came slowly towards the door. 
Did the body always feel so strong — so unkilla- 
ble — when the heart was stricken with a mortal 
wound ? 


174 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“I hope there will be no nonsense,” said 
Lady Beaufoy, who was one of those persons 
whom anxiety always renders irritable. 
“Felix is an excellent match. I did not know 
much about him at first, but all that I have 
heard since you became engaged to him has 
confirmed me in the opinion I had formed of 
him. He is an amiable, estimable young man, 
a devoted grandson, who has never given Sir 
Henry an hour’s anxiety. He is agreeable 
and intelligent, and the settlements his grand- 
father proposes to make are in every way sat- 
isfactory, and even generous. You are mak- 
ing a far better marriage, from a worldly point 
of view, than either of my daughters, and, I 
may tell you frankly, a far better one than I 
had ever anticipated!” 

But Evodia said nothing. How much of 
this flattering presentment of Felix’s charac- 
ter, disposition, and prospects would survive 
the morrow? They left the room together, and 
Lady Beaufoy watched her as she went up- 
stairs to her bedroom. “Something has hap- 
pened!” she said to herself, “or she would not 
look like that! How tiresome these very ret- 
icent people are — they keep one on such ten- 
ter-hooks! It would be simply suicidal to 
guarrel with Felix!” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


175 


Evodia crept up to her room. There was a 
bright fire, for the April evening was damp 
and chilly; the light from the flames seemed 
to touch with a kind of warm radiance the 
gleaming folds of her blue dress, which had 
been placed in readiness for her. It was a 
dress that Felix had always admired. Her 
fan, shoes, and cloak were lying ready. 

All this time she had been very quiescent, but 
once she began to move, the feeling of numb- 
ness passed, giving place to one of sharp pain. 
Her eyes burned with the fire of unshed tears. 
So he had gone; she had sent him away. It 
was all at an end — everything — the happiness, 
the joy, the dear sweetness of it all. One 
short hour had sufficed for this dreadful thing 
to happen. She remembered his last words, 
flung at her with a bitterness he could not con- 
ceal: “I shall pray God to take the image 
of you out of my heart!” She was shivering 
now with cold. What would Lady Beaufoy 
say? How could she tell her? How face 
those keen, searching eyes? “I was always 
sorry you should get engaged so quickly to 
a man you knew so little of!” Evodia could 
imagine she heard her saying these words. If 
she could only go away— to-night — quietly, se- 
cretly — how much better that would be! It 


176 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


was the inevitable explanation that, to one 
who had always been so silent and reserved, 
seemed a thing not to be borne. Not only 
her aunt, but her two cousins would have to 
be told. Axel’s gibes — she could hear them 
already. She knew exactly what each one 
would say! There would be pity and sym- 
pathy, too, to be faced — of all things the most 
intolerable. Felix would be blamed, perhaps 
spoken of with disdain and contempt. She had 
one wild impulse to flee from all these threat- 
ened tortures. The coward in her was upper- 
most. Lady Beaufoy would only ask one 
thing of her — that she should make no sound. 
To suffer might be necessary; to cry out was 
merely ill-bred. So long as she did not show 
a stricken face to the world — so long as she 
could deftly fit a mask upon her features — 
her aunt would be satisfied. And how could 
she hide forever this torment that was already 
beginning to gnaw at her heart? It would 
be quite simple and easy to bear one sharp 
sword-thrust — but to go on bearing it, renewed 
every day, for many days, for many weeks, 
perhaps, indeed, for many years — that was im- 
possible. This man who had given her so 
much, had taken it all away by his own action. 
He had come to her as a beggar, an outcast. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


177 


He had put a barrier between them, deep as 
the seas, wide as the great earth. He had 
shamed and humiliated her. He was selfish, 
thinking of her not at all, but only of his own 
soul’s welfare. She thought of him as one en- 
snared. He had fallen such an easy prey! 

“Her ladyship desired me to say that she 
wishes to speak to mademoiselle.” Hortense’s 
voice sounded at once respectful and compas- 
sionate. 

Evodia went down to her aunt’s room. She 
found Lady Beaufoy alone, looking as if she 
had suddenly been interrupted in the process 
of dressing. She wore a voluminous white 
wrapper; her hair was slightly disordered. 
Without a word she held out a letter to E vodia, 
who took it mechanically ; at first glance she 
saw that it was in Sir Henry’s handwriting. 

It ran as follows : 

Dear Lady Beaufoy: — My grandson has 
doubtless informed you that he has, without 
my knowledge or consent, become a Roman 
Catholic. As I do not wish Mollingmere to 
fall eventually into the hands of the priests, 
I intend to safeguard my property, and the 
whole of my capital, by settling them upon my 
younger grandson, Keith, and his heirs. Your 


178 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


niece will, I regret to say, find herself engaged 
to a pauper, and, for her sake, I am exceed- 
ingly sorry that I have had to proceed to such 
severe measures. I believe Felix’s income is 
about two hundred pounds from all sources, 
and I have absolutely forbidden him to come 
here again. I have nothing more to say, ex- 
cept that this decision is completely irrevoca- 
ble so long as he chooses to remain a Roman 
Catholic. The persons who persuaded him 
will find they have defeated their own ends, 
and that their prey was scarcely worth the 
trouble of capture! — Yours sincerely, 

Henry Scaife. 

This letter had been brought to Lady Beau- 
foy ten minutes ago by her maid. She read 
it through, gave a little cry of dismay, and 
dropped it upon the floor with a gesture of 
despair. This — this was disaster. She re- 
called Evodia’s face, her cold “I will tell you 
to-morrow,” her impenetrable silence. She un- 
derstood now the purport of Felix’s visit — 
how he had come to tell her of the step he had 
taken and its consequences. Two hundred a 
year! Evodia had even less — a bare two hun- 
dred. That had been due to Clement’s foolish 
and criminal action in purchasing annuities 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


179 


for himself and his delicate wife. Evodia 
could not live on less than four hundred a year ! 
It meant that her engagement would be broken 
off. Sir Henry was little likely ever to for- 
give Felix for this. It would eclipse in his 
eyes all the misdoings of Keith, even his im- 
prudent marriage. 

She turned to her maid. “I am very much 
upset. Go and telephone at once to Lady 
Templeton, and say that I am indisposed, and 
that we are unable to come and dine with her 
to-night. And tell Hortense to say that I 
must speak to Miss Essex at once!” 

And now Evodia was standing in front of 
her, holding the letter in her hand and saying 
not a word. 

“I have telephoned to Cordelia to say that 
we cannot possibly go. Why did you not tell 
me at once?” 

Evodia put the letter down on the dressing- 
table. She regarded, with apparent interest, 
her aunt’s array of delicate silver and tortoise- 
shell toilet things with which the table was 
adorned. In particular she noticed a little 
photograph of Sophy dressed as a bride, with 
a true-lover’s-knot embossed in silver upon the 
frame. 

“Do not stand there like a statue, please. 


180 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


It gets on my nerves!” Lady Beaufoy’s 
nerves were now on edge. “Of course we can- 
not dine out in the face of this disaster ! Were 
you intending to emulate the achievement of 
the Spartan boy and the fox?” 

But the mask was already learning its hard 
duty. Evodia did not flinch. “You have al- 
ways urged me not to inconvenience other peo- 
ple,” she said softly, “and Lady Templeton 
will be fearfully put out!” 

“Why did you not tell me? Why did you 
wish to put it off till to-morrow?” 

“I preferred to wait. You see I had not 
got accustomed to the idea myself!” 

“But I hope you have made things quite 
clear to Felix?” cried Lady Beaufoy, in a tone 
of real dismay. 

“In what way?” 

“That you cannot possibly marry him 
now!” 

“He understands what I intend to do,” said 
Evodia. 

“Understands?” 

She felt an anxiety that she described after- 
wards to Sophy as quite sickening . 

“Our engagement is at an end. I — I have 
broken it off,” said Evodia, repressing a wan 
smile, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


181 


Lady Beaufoy was unable to conceal her 
immense relief. 

“I am delighted to hear that you were — 
so immediately reasonable,” she said. She 
had felt that in a sudden crisis Evodia might 
act in an impossibly quixotic manner; she had 
poor Clement’s unworldly temperament. But 
she seemed to have given up her lover without 
a pang! 

“I knew you would approve,” said Evodia, 
and her cold voice held no little irony. 

“He has something under two hundred a 
year. You have even less. You could not 
possibly marry on four hundred a year!” said 
Lady Beaufoy. 

“I suppose not,” said Evodia, “but surely 
many people have — even less!” 

“Of course it is a thousand pities that the 
engagement was ever announced. But you 
both seemed in such a hurry! And we knew 
so little of him! It is all very unfortunate — 
and I am very sorry for you, Evodia.” She 
kissed her, and Evodia scarcely shrank from 
the caress. 

“Thank you, Aunt Susan,” she said, touched 
by the kindly tone of sympathy. 

“I hope Felix didn’t give you much 
trouble?” 


182 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

She remembered his white and miserable 
face as he slipped past her in the hall. 

“No — not much.” 

“He must have foreseen the probable con- 
sequences of his action. It was perfectly 
suicidal!” 

“Yes — it will sound well, won’t it?” said 
Evodia, bitterly. 

“Is there no chance of his giving it up?” 

“I should imagine not. He has had a whole 
month in which to make up his mind.” 

“Had you no idea? Could you not have 
dissuaded him?” 

“I had no idea. And, in any case, I could 
have done nothing. I told you about Father 
Antony coming that night to Mollingmere, and 
how Felix went back with him to the monas- 
tery at Cossoway? It was the priest’s death 
that impressed him so much. I knew at the 
time it had made a strong impression. I 
thought it would pass off — but it did not. He 
went back there and talked to the Father 
Guardian, and he advised him to go and spend 
a few days at Westonside. They have a mon- 
astery there as well. Well — he was received 
there after making a week’s retreat under an- 
other priest. That is really all I know. He 
went down to Mollingmere last night and saw 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


183 


Sir Henry. He is never to go back there — Sir 
Henry would not even say good-by. He is 
going back to Westonside until he can find 
some employment. He thought there would 
not be any need to postpone our marriage for 
a single day!” 

“The man must be mad!” said Lady Beau- 
foy. “I am exceedingly sorry for Sir Henry; 
he must indeed feel it terribly. He is a Prot- 
estant of quite the old school, and will not even 
allow the psalms to be sung in his own church, 
and insists upon always reading the lessons 
himself! It is indeed a most unhappy, tragic 
affair! Really — you are taking it very well, 
Evodia — I should have thought you would 
have been much more upset! You might even 
have felt it your duty to rush into an impru- 
dent marriage with this foolish, unreliable 
young man! Girls are so often deplorably 
foolish, when they are — or imagine themselves 
to be — in love !” 

“I want you to understand this, please, Aunt 
Susan,” said Evodia; “I know I am extrava- 
gant in some ways, but it isn’t the money I 
am thinking of! Felix has changed — some- 
thing has come between us — something even 
stronger than his love for me, something that 
makes me afraid. I — I couldn’t marry a 


184 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


Catholic, Aunt Susan. They make hard con- 
ditions for the non-Catholic. But I don’t 
want you to misunderstand Felix either. He 
has been unnaturally influenced. He had 
never thought of this in all his life until he 
met Father Antony. He says that his was a 
sudden conversion.” 

“Perversion!” cried Lady Beaufoy, and as 
she uttered it the word had the effect of being 
rapped out on metal. 

“In some ways I don’t think he could help 
himself. Their arguments must be so very 
strong. Felix has the faith which I am sure 
will make him quite happy. But he has left 
me with nothing. I should like never to speak 
of it again. You could tell Milly and Sophy, 
and say that I would rather not discuss it!” 

“You are tired,” said Lady Beaufoy with 
sudden pity; “you had better go to bed, hadn’t 
you? We can talk over plans in the morn- 
ing. Perhaps I might manage to go abroad 
a little sooner — that would be the best thing. 
I am sure you won’t want to stay in town.” 

She watched Evodia as she went quietly 
out of the room. “Her pride is hurt,” she said 
to herself ; “but I cannot believe that she ever 
cared twopence about the man. She seems 
to have let him go without a word!” 


CHAPTER XII 


E vodia locked the door of her room, and, 
sitting at a little bureau, took out some 
writing materials. She sat there for quite a 
long time quite idly, holding the pen in her 
hand. Twice she began a letter. The first 
began thus : My dear Felix. . . . She threw 
that sheet aside and took another. Dear 
Felix. . . . How cold and formal it looked — 
it would hurt him. It seemed impossible to 
write to him thus. What would he expect 
when he saw the letter ? That she had written 
— full of swift repentance and remorse — ask- 
ing him to come back to her — to make plans 
anew for the future? Her heart beat a little 
faster at the thought. It was only a few hours 
ago that she had waited for him to come — 
eagerly looking forward to hearing his voice, 
to seeing his face. The remembrance of his 
love could still touch her. At a word from 
her he would come; had he not said so? It 
was not yet too late. That parting could not 
be their last. Yes — she would send for him. 
She did not want anything except to feel the 


186 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


touch of his hand again. All the rest was not 
worth while. She could not live without him; 
she would send for him, imploring him to for- 
give her. One need not starve on four hun- 
dred a year. He had been gone less than an 
hour — and she could not bear it any longer. 
. . . She had been too hasty. She took up 
her pen again, and began yet a third letter. 
My dearest Felix. . . . Her eyes were so full 
of tears — burning, blinding tears — that she 
could not read what she had written. It can- 
not mean that I am to lose you too ... his 
words came back to her poignant with anguish. 
He must have gone away believing that she 
had never loved him, that she had only prom- 
ised to marry him on account of his posses- 
sions. That was how it would look to all the 
world! Would he ever be able to forget that 
insult — that injury? He had often told her that 
he disliked the worldliness of her two cousins, 
and that he was glad she had absorbed so little 
of it. Now he could only regard her as utterly 
false, as one who had merely played a part, 
desiring to deceive him that he might think 
well of her. She had cared for him in truth 
so much that she had always been afraid he 
should guess the measure of her affection. 
Only once — on that fatal evening of Father 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


187 


Antony’s arrival at Mollingmere — had she 
ever shown him in any sense what was in her 
heart. For in every human heart is there not 
a secret chamber marked clausura , as in a con- 
vent, hidden even from the one whose shrine it 
is and for whom it is faithfully kept? 

Perhaps he did not want her so much now. 
He had other things — things that could make 
him happy, and that could even compensate 
him for all the losses he had suffered — which 
could indeed mitigate his so obvious pain at 
losing her. Her pride was deeply wounded 
at the lack of confidence he had shown. She 
had had no warning. It would be better, after 
all, to go away — far away — where she should 
never hear his name. She began to harden her 
heart against him, and the third letter was 
also torn up. There had been such a want of 
trust in her! It had been perhaps her fault 
for having shown annoyance when he stayed 
so long at Cossoway that first time. If she 
could only have foreseen that even then he was 
standing at the parting of the ways! The 
Norns, whom nebulously she had feared, had 
been already at work, spinning the frail yet 
fatal web that was yet to be so powerful a 
barrier between them. For the footsteps of 
Father Antony were even then approaching 


188 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


Mollingmere. He was the messenger of fate, 
carrying in his hands the destiny of Felix 
Scaife. She felt that her cold sense of im- 
pending change had been less a presentiment 
than an illuminating clairvoyance. She shiv- 
ered a little. She was too weak to fight against 
such amazing forces. Unhesitatingly she took 
a fourth sheet of paper and wrote quickly as 
follows : 

Dear Felix : — I have made up my mind to 
go abroad as soon as possible, probably with 
Aunt Susan. Do not come again. It would 
be no use, as I could not possibly see you. 
Aunt Susan will probably wish to publish the 
breaking of our engagement in the papers. It 
will stop people from sending presents. But 
if it is against your wishes, kindly let her know. 
She has received a letter from Sir Henry con- 
firming his decision. 

Evodia Essex. 

She put the letter in an envelope, stamped 
it, and rang the bell. “Please have this posted 
at once,” she said to Hortense. When the maid 
had gone she opened a little jewel-case and 
took out some of the things that Felix had 
given her. There was a diamond pendant nes- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


189 


tling in the white velvet lining of its own little 
case. There were sundry brooches and brace- 
lets, a long string of beautiful pearls. And 
there was the ring — still on her finger. She 
slipped it off — she could not look at it now, 
and she thrust it into a box with the rest. 
To-morrow — she could send them all back to- 
morrow. How cold it was. She had let the 
fire go down. Yes- — if possible she would 
leave for Paris to-morrow, and Lady Beaufoy 
could join her there directly she was ready. 
Only to escape the meeting with her cousins — 
with Axel! 

She went to the window and looked out. 
The rain had ceased and the sky was quite 
clear. Above the roofs of the houses she could 
see a few pale stars shining like timid beacons. 
She felt strangely alive and alert; her body 
felt so strong, so incapable of fatigue. Then 
it was in her soul that this deep hurt lay — this 
numbness which made her seem almost as one 
stricken suddenly by the hand of death. 


CHAPTER XIII 


F elix crossed Curzon Street when he left 
Lady Beaufoy’s house, and, threading 
through the narrow thoroughfares, at last 
found himself in Park Lane. He walked 
quickly, and his expression was that of a man 
completely dazed. It was not at first that 
he was conscious of pain, but rather that he 
was not conscious of anything at all. 

The swiftness of the change that had been 
wrought within him during the last few weeks 
had surprised no one more than himself. He 
felt, indeed, that he had been driven forward 
by those forces within a man’s soul, which are so 
slow normally to be set in action, but starting 
grudgingly, reluctantly, with difficulty, they 
are capable of acquiring a speed impossible to 
restrain or subdue. And it was to these forces 
he had surrendered — after the first passionate 
rebellion had been conquered — with a glad sub- 
mission. 


190 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


191 


Sometimes he had felt the force to be actu- 
ally exterior to his own will, but in any case it 
was dominant, irresistible. 

Between the determination to pursue a cer- 
tain course, and the necessary delay in carry- 
ing it out, the time of waiting is always a period 
of trial. The wisdom of the Church decrees 
that there should be a time of waiting, of 
probation, of humbly-received instruction, in 
order that the genuineness of the intention may 
be tested. Felix had probably, even more 
than most converts, felt this period of proba- 
tion to be intolerably hard. Priests, who are 
accustomed to witness this strange spectacle of 
a very sudden conversion, must necessarily be 
on their guard and test such a person with even 
more severity than one who has traveled more 
slowly. The hard, cold time of waiting, of 
7 seeking admission at a closed, impenetrable 
portal, purges the heart of all morbid emotion 
while it crystallizes and strengthens the newly- 
sown seed of faith. Some had even counseled 
a further waiting in Felix’s case, a longer term 
of probation, but he had pleaded passionately 
that his reception might not be delayed. He 
was ignorant, but his eagerness to learn, the 
humility of his attitude towards his teachers, 


192 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


predisposed them in his favor. Obviously he 
was neither emotional nor morbid. The cir- 
cumstances of his case — his approaching mar- 
riage, the uncertainty of his prospects as a 
Catholic — all militated in his favor. He had 
had a very direct vision of the path he was to 
take; he had felt the grace of faith entering 
his soul with a vehemence, a spiritual violence 
not to be gainsaid. For had he not rebelled 
with a fierce rebellion against the infusion of 
grace? And he had found rebellion futile; 
like St. Paul he had arisen, blinded, shaken, 
but from that hour submissive, knowing that 
he had come in contact with forces stronger 
than all else. 

To a certain extent he had counted the cost ; 
he had known that Sir Henry would be gravely 
displeased, but remembering the affection he 
had bestowed upon him in the past, he could 
not believe that they would be permanently 
estranged. And the immediate results had 
startled him. He had not expected to see him 
so angry, so overwhelmed with fury. His eyes 
had flashed murderous gleams, and before 
Felix could avert the blow, he had struck him 
with all his force across the face. He remem- 
bered with horror the uncontrolled, furious in- 
vectives that had accompanied that blow, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


193 


They seemed to bruise his heart as the blow 
had bruised his face, leaving a deep angry 
mark across its pallor. It had been for him 
such a terrible moment that he would gladly 
have expunged it from the slates of his memory. 
It was the signal of the end of all his long 
friendship with his grandfather, of the long 
confidence that had existed between them. 
Reconciliation was out of the question. Sir 
Henry “never forgave” — he prided himself 
upon this quality. This offense of Felix’s was 
inexorably categoried among the unforgivable 
things; all his pride in his grandson, who had 
ever been so amiable, so tender, so loyal, was 
shattered in that one moment of relentless an- 
ger. Keith had sinned like a man — Felix had 
acted as a fool. He saw in him the weak dupe 
of wily priests. 

Felix had not lost any of his calmness dur- 
ing that wild scene. Shamed and humiliated 
that he should have been struck, when to 
avenge the blow was impossible, his self-con- 
trol never left him. He had already acquired 
something of the habit of detachment which 
characterizes almost inevitably the Catholic. 
Only as he listened, dazed and bewildered, Sir 
Henry’s words seemed like so many bombs 
flung at the fabric of the past, shattering it 


194 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


and demolishing it stone by stone. Not a slow 
dying this of things familiar and ineffably 
dear, but a swift slaying to a death that could 
know no resurrection. Felix was literally 
stunned. He scarcely spoke during the in- 
terview. He could say nothing in self-de- 
fense, since that would have been like making 
excuses for conduct which had been not only 
right in his eyes, but admitted of no excuse. 
He set his lips and remembered the counsels 
that had been given to him at Westonside. 

He might have been a young Roman martyr 
standing before his inquisitors, with his grave, 
serene face and calm, sad eyes. So might St. 
Sebastian have looked while the pitiless arrows 
pierced his flesh. Never before had his per- 
sonal beauty been so strangely evident. The 
crimson stain of that harsh blow showed on his 
cheek like an angry patch — could ever arrow 
have struck with sharper bitterness ? Even Sir 
Henry could not be blind to that curious ar- 
resting beauty, which seemed to proceed more 
from the soul within rather than from the ex- 
terior lineaments of the man. Half blind 
with rage, the old man could yet recognize 
that all the qualities he had admired and en- 
couraged in his grandson were now deepened 
and accentuated. The stability of character, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


195 


the strength of will, the courage and determi- 
nation to fulfill what he conceived to be his 
duty, his singleness of purpose — all these 
things were to be used now as so many forces 
to be directed against himself and his au- 
thority. They were now as armor to Felix. 

Sir Henry called him the dupe of priests, 
but in his heart he knew that Felix was no 
man’s dupe; that he had taken the step quite 
deliberately, actually seeking aid to accomplish 
it. If the old man had been able to perceive 
any sign of coercion or proselytizing, he would 
have found the whole thing easier to bear. A 
sick — nay, a dying — priest coming acciden- 
tally to Mollingmere; a night spent in minis- 
tering to his sufferings and needs ; the two days 
passed at the monastery ; the subsequent death 
of the friar — these things had formed the sum 
total of Felix’s connection with the Catholic 
Church. He had gone forward blindly — who 
could say that it had not been all his doing 
from first to last? 

At last there had come silence; Sir Henry 
was completely exhausted. Felix held out his 
hand wistfully. The dark eyes that met Sir 
Henry’s so clearly were serene and untroubled. 
“Good-night — and good-by?” he said, as if in 
appeal against the harshness of his sentence. 


196 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


But Sir Henry did not reply, nor did he 
take any notice of the proffered hand. And 
so Felix left him. 

Still more he had counted upon the love and 
loyalty of Evodia. These things, too, had 
vanished like thistle-down before the wind. 
She had sent him away, and to the most san- 
guine person there could have seemed very 
little hope that she would ever alter her de- 
cision. As he crossed Park Lane and went 
towards Hyde Park Corner, the remembrance 
of those two agonizing interviews filled his 
mind. Now he had reached the crowds that 
clustered about the gates of the Park. St. 
George’s Hospital showed an immense blotted 
purple mass against the night sky. The win- 
dows gleamed like squares of golden light. 
Below was the seething mass of traffic; in the 
crepuscle he could hardly distinguish the de- 
tails, for a thin film of fog had arisen blurring 
the edges of all things. But sometimes a huge 
motor-omnibus would emerge triumphantly 
from the indeterminate mass, and, with a shrill 
cry and a fierce grinding of wheels and ma- 
chinery, pass swiftly like a relentless car of 
Juggernaut upon its way. The long line of 
street lamps glowed faintly as they pierced the 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


197 


gloom at regular intervals, where the road 
dipped westward towards Knightsbridge. 
The trees in the Park waved their branches 
like formless protesting ghosts. A newspaper 
boy cried shrilly from the curb; the sound of 
his voice was quickly drowned by the raucous 
tones of an omnibus conductor, who shouted 
the various destinations of the vehicle. 
“Brompton Road, South Ken , Walham 
Green . . the words fell meaninglessly on 
Felix’s ears. 

The chill night wind touched his face as if 
with reviving fingers. He passed swiftly 
through the throng and walked rapidly to- 
wards Brompton, on his way to the Oratory. 
His longing to find himself within its walls, 
for the first time since his conversion, was in- 
tense. As he approached it he could see the 
dome darkly violet against the sky, while below, 
upon the edge of the gray facade, the pale Fig- 
ure of Our Lady stood, drawn vaguely in the 
darkening twilight, her hands stretched forth, 
as it were, towards London, in an attitude of 
appeal — of entreaty. The doors were open, 
and, as Felix entered he saw that two acolytes 
were engaged in lighting the candles on the 
High Altar, which, with its delicate white and 
gold, seemed to shine with pale splendor in the 


198 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


gloom of the church. He knelt down, crossed 
himself, and said the words of a prayer. With 
half mechanical interest he observed the deft 
and practised manner in which the two boys 
performed their task. 

Outside, the turmoil of the street, the sound 
of horses’ hoofs, or motor-horns, the grinding 
of great wheels, the passing of heavy drays, 
seemed to grow a little fainter, and at last he 
lost all sense of it. His mind was suddenly 
concentrated upon the Tabernacle. He had 
the feeling that the sounds that had drifted 
into the building from without had been con- 
quered and suppressed by the extraordinary 
peace which possessed the church, and which 
appeared to him like an aura, an atmosphere, 
a tangible thing. Once or twice when visiting 
Catholic churches abroad, as a mere sight-seer, 
he had been sensible of the same thing, 
and had resisted the impression as a supersti- 
tious feeling, morbid and troubling. Now he 
permitted it to sink deeply into his soul, per- 
meating him with its own exquisite calm. He 
realized more than ever how permanent and 
abiding was the Divine Presence within that 
white-curtained Tabernacle. Silent ever, im- 
prisoned, watchful ceaselessly, ready to hear, 
appealing for prayer, for companionship, for 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


199 


love; appealing too against indifference, neg- 
lect, miscomprehension. Felix hid his face, 
bowing it upon his hands, and surrendered 
himself to the deep emotions of joy and faith 
that fell like a healing balm upon his heart. 

While his physical being felt starved and 
cold, since for twelve hours he had not tasted 
food, and he was faint from exhaustion, his 
spiritual happiness was complete. The emo- 
tion surprised him; he was almost broken- 
hearted with grief, and yet absolutely at peace. 
Physical hunger had contributed to numb his 
senses, and he seemed to move through spheres 
and scenes of which he had material cognizance, 
where human beings played no disturbing part, 
where poverty, ostracism, and the like were of 
no account, and were but immomentous de- 
tails of a life that seemed to belong to him no 
more. He did not desire a return to his nor- 
mal self. Rather he felt that if he could have 
chosen his lot it would have been to die now. 
Technically he was in what the Church calls a 
state of grace; he had made full confession, 
humbly and with deep contrition, after much 
reparation for the sins of his past life; he had 
received absolution; he had tasted the bitter- 
ness and the sweetness that are so closely asso- 
ciated in the sacrament of penance. To the 


200 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


reserved and silent how bitter is the first tast- 
ing; how fierce and overwhelming are the 
floods of those deep waters into which the soul 
is plunged before it may receive the tender 
absolution of the Church. 

As all things of temporal value fell away one 
by one, he became aware of the soul that re- 
garded dispassionately these ruins. Once he 
had seen a street of the South shaken by an 
earthquake; he could recall the helplessness of 
those strong walls of masonry that had en- 
dured for generations, and how futile their 
strength had been against one touch, one blow, 
when Nature chose to exert her power. How 
readily those walls had collapsed, like a house 
of cards at one touch from a childish finger. 
It was thus he perceived his own personal, ma- 
terial life, with its accidents of peace, pros- 
perity, success, happiness, suddenly thrown 
into absolute confusion, he himself standing in 
the midst, incapable of estimating the perma- 
nence and extent of that ruin. It was the Soul 
of him that watched, not with indifference, but 
with the detachment born of grace. He 
looked, as it were, from the spiritual stand- 
point. The pearl — and the merchant who 
sold all that he had in order to possess it; this 
was no parable, but a fact stern and simple. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


201 


The pearl was his. “Take, O Lord , all my 
liberty , my memory, my understanding, and 
my will — whatever I have and possess. . . ” 
His lips formed the words of the prayer of St. 
Ignatius. 

Before the Altar he could see three priests 
wearing white vestments. From above in the 
gallery the low, soft notes of the organ 
sounded across the stillness; a boy’s voice of 
thrilling sweetness sang the incomparable O 
Salutaris Hostia . The gold Monstrance, 
with its precious Burden, stood enthroned 
above the Tabernacle. The fragrance of those 
thick clouds of silver incense was wafted to- 
wards him. He was too fresh a convert not 
to be impressed strongly by all that was 
strange and novel in this service of pure wor- 
ship. He had only once or twice been pres- 
ent at Benediction during his stay at Weston- 
side. The music, the lights, the fragrant in- 
cense, all seemed to combine and co-operate 
with the passionate faith awakened in his heart 
to adore That in Whose honor all these tem- 
poral things were reverently employed. And 
as he knelt there, humble and submissive, he 
saw his sacrifice in its true proportion; rec- 
ognized how immeasurable was still the debt 
which he owed in return for the grace of faith 


202 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


he had received. All the recent events, from 
the time of Father Antony’s arrival at Mol- 
lingmere, had led up to this moment of su- 
preme joy. It had been worth while, all of 
it — the pain, the sacrifices, the bitterness of 
parting. He had seen love die in one swift, 
bitter moment. He had seen his heritage torn 
from him. He had listened to cruel words, 
had endured the humiliation of a harsh blow. 
And, in return, he possessed the grace of faith, 
of which nothing but his own deliberate action 
could ever deprive him. Only the malice of 
sin could take from him this Pearl of Great 
Price. 

The words of the Litany of Loreto fell upon 
his ear with an appealing sweetness : 

“Mater Christi, 

Mater Divinae gratiae. 

Mater purissima, 

Ora pro nobis . . 


And presently, as if in supplication: 

“Stella matutina, 

Salus infirmorum, 

Refugium peccatorum, 

Ora pro nobis . . .” 


There came to Felix then the passionate de- 
sire that Evodia should some day share his 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


203 


profound joy. A vision of her rose before 
him; her dark and brilliant eyes, the cloud of 
silken black hair lying loosely on her brow. 
She was like a vision, delicately beautiful, with 
a fragile, poetical loveliness and charm. Even 
that boy’s voice, sweet as it was, lacked the 
peculiar sweetness of hers. If she could share 
his faith, how perfect their marriage might yet 
be. But the cruel reality swept with blinding 
pain once more across his senses. He had 
parted from her forever. She had said that 
she would never see him again. . . . He began 
to feel already that a dreadful and impene- 
trable silence had begun to surround her. At 
the thought of her his love, tender and adoring, 
reasserted itself; he felt faint and sick with 
the sense of immense loss; he could have cried 
her name aloud in pitiful entreaty. Some- 
thing blurred his vision so that he could scarcely 
see the white Altar, the kneeling figures in the 
Sanctuary. The thought of her was intoler- 
ably poignant ; the moment of detachment had 
gone; again he was suffering grievously. 

Blaming himself bitterly, he endeavored to 
recover the threads of his former meditation; 
he dwelt persistently upon the greatness of his 
gain; he saw his faith in the light of a Divine 
gift, not a thing of man’s volition — a grace to 


204 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

be greatly treasured and delicately nurtured in 
the secret garden of the soul. 

The choir sang the Tantum Ergo , and he 
bowed his head low in adoration, remaining 
thus until the Benediction had been given. 
At last, when every one had gone, he rose stiffly 
from his knees and went out into the Bromp- 
ton Road. He walked to South Kensington 
and took the train thence to Paddington. 
When he arrived there, he found there would 
be a train in about half an hour’s time which 
would take him as far as Bath. He had a cup 
of coffee in the refreshment room, but he could 
eat nothing. Westonside seemed to be calling 
to him. In imagination he could see the great 
monastery set in a valley of the beautiful west 
country; its walls offered him shelter and 
peace. Worn out with the fatigue and emo- 
tion of the last twenty-four hours, he crept into 
an empty third-class carriage and fell asleep. 

“I have come back, Father . . .” 

The Father Guardian looked anxiously at 
the weary-eyed man, who seemed to have be- 
come so much taller and thinner since he went 
away two days ago. His long fast, his two 
broken nights, had worn him out physically. 

A look of pity came into the priest’s eyes. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 205 

“You are very welcome, my son,” he said 
kindly. 

“I am feeling a little done up,” said Felix; 
“I slept at the station in the waiting-room. It 
was too late to come here last night.” 

The morning sunshine flooded the room; 
outside the birds were singing, the sweet spring 
scents came in at the open window; the wind 
stirred, caressing the young leaves. 

“I have lost everything, Father,” continued 
Felix; “my grandfather has turned me out of 
his house; he is going to disinherit me.” In- 
stinctively he put his hand up to his face where 
the mark of the bruise still showed faintly dis- 
colored. “My — marriage will not take place.” 
Something in the back of his throat threatened 
to strangle him; he could not say any more. 
A black mist rose up before his eyes, blotting 
out the brown-habited Franciscan figure. 
There was a crash, and Felix fell heavily upon 
the floor before the Father Guardian could 
reach him. 

“Poor boy — poor boy; how very hard on 
him!” he said commiseratingly as he bent down 
and loosened his collar and chafed his hands 
gently. The infirmarian came, and Felix 
was quickly placed in a warm bed and given 
restoratives. He was literally starving and 


20 6 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

exhausted. Nature, too long defied, now re- 
asserted her power, and the poor neglected 
body was incapable of further effort. For 
several weeks Felix lay very ill at the monas- 
tery at Westonside. 


CHAPTER XIV 


4 4 Tt seems perfectly incredible,” said Sophy, 
X in her decisive way, “that such a thing 
should have happened to any of us! Such a 
stupid, tiresome, unnecessary thing! There 
will be so much fuss and talk. Lina Carson 
came around at ten o’clock this morning to ask 
me if it were true. And it makes every one 
look so absurd and — ridiculous!” 

She banged the floor with her parasol, and 
Lady Beaufoy merely said: “You will break 
that ivory handle, Sophy, if you are so violent! 
I assure you I am sick to death of the whole 
business !” 

“Where is Evodia? Grieving in her 
bower?” inquired Axel, who had, of course, 
accompanied his wife, for he was extremely 
desirous of hearing all the details of this un- 
happy yet interesting occurrence. 

“Yes — where is she?” said Sophy; “can’t 
she do anything with him? Can’t she get him 
to go down to Mollingmere and apologize to 
Sir Henry for the trouble he has caused and 
promise to give up this foolish freak, now he 

207 


208 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

sees How unhappy it is making so many 
people?” 

A very wan smile parted her mother’s lips. 
She did not reply. 

“You forget,” said Axel; “Felix takes this 
foolish freak, as you call it, with immense 
seriousness. I have not seen him, but I am 
convinced that this is his attitude. He is like 
a man who is going to be made a bishop. He 
has realized that he has got a soul, and he can 
think of nothing else! Sir Henry — Evodia — 
dear belle-mere — are all phantoms — obstruct- 
ive phantoms!” — he waved a fat, white hand 
as if to disperse the said phantoms — “in the 
path of righteousness. We can only be thank- 
ful that, with this peculiar and hitherto un- 
suspected temperament, he did not choose to 
go and shout in Hyde Park, attired in the ad- 
mirable, but conspicuous, uniform of the 
Salvation Army !” 

“Oh, but he would never have done that, 
Axel!” cried Lady Beaufoy, aghast at the 
suggestion. 

Axel regarded her with a pale, expression- 
less face. 

“I am less prepared than you are,” he said, 
“to pronounce any ipse dixit upon the prob- 
able conduct — past, present, or future — of 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


209 


Felix Scaife. I have always said the Scaifes 
were very queer people. Both these boys were 
oddly brought up by Sir Henry!” 

“But where is Evodia?” said Sophy; “it is 
impossible that she should be sitting there with 
her hands in front of her, doing nothing at 
such a crisis!” 

She felt that this was the time for action 
— for definite, decisive action. Would no one 
go and interview Sir Henry? Was no at- 
tempt to be made to mollify his anger — to 
reason with Felix — to urge Evodia to go and 
make peace between the conflicting parties? 

“She is in her room, and she does not wish 
to see any one,” said Lady Beaufoy. “You 
had better not go to her, Sophy. Naturally 
she is a little upset! She declares that Felix 
gave her very little trouble — but, of course, it 
was a most awkward situation for her!” 

“Ah, it must have been!” said Axel, ap- 
preciatively. “To promise a man to marry 
him — we will not allow that his possessions 
influenced her in the least when she accepted 
him — and then to throw him over when he is 
virtually disinherited! I am sure it was not 
easy, even for Evodia!” 

“No — I suppose if she had really cared 
about him she would have stuck to him!” said 


210 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


Sophy. “That would have been truly awful 
for you, Mamma — you would always have had 
them on your hands then! Has he got any- 
thing?” 

“Just a little more than Evodia — about two 
hundred a year. Between them they would 
not have quite four hundred a year. He talked 
of getting work, but it is not easy for a man 
of nearly thirty, who has never done anything, 
to find work. Evodia has behaved in a very 
reasonable, rational way; one must be very 
thankful for that! I was immensely relieved 
when she told me that it was all broken off ! I 
could not help feeling extremely anxious when 
I first received Sir Henry’s letter. Evodia 
is so very headstrong, and she had managed 
the affair quite alone from the beginning and 
never asked my advice or permission. She is 
so like Clement — but poor, dear Clement would 
never have acted with such wisdom. He was 
infatuated — and no one could ever call Evodia 
infatuated !” 

Axel rubbed his hands. “She knows her 
own worth!” he said calmly. “No doubt she 
will find that ' Alps upon Alps arise 7” 

The Brydens appeared at that moment, and 
the conversation was momentarily switched off, 
only to be resumed again almost immediately, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


211 


for the new-comers were also extremely de- 
sirous of offering advice. 

“I cannot imagine what induced Felix to 
take such a step,” said James Bryden. “Re- 
union is what we seek — re-union of the 
churches. W e shall then dictate our own terms 
to the Vatican, and they will, in return for 
our sacrifices, be compelled to recognize the 
validity of our orders!” 

Lady Beaufoy was old-fashioned, and ob- 
jected to the idea of such a proceeding. “I 
cannot imagine,” she said dryly, “where the 
Vatican could find any point upon which to 
re-unite with such a Church as the one at 
Mollingmere, nor with such a person as Mr. 
Matheson, the vicar there !” 

“Felix has committed a selfish action,” con- 
tinued James Bryden, who was accustomed to 
address local meetings on the subject; “he has 
done as an individual what we are all hoping 
to do one day in a body!” 

“You forget,” said Lady Beaufoy, “Felix 
never went through any intermediate stage of 
being High Church or anything of that sort. 
He was brought up under Sir Henry’s thumb 
on strictly Evangelical principles. His per- 
version therefore is all the more extraordinary.” 

“If he had come to us,” said James, “we 


212 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


should have shown him that we are the true 
Catholic Church purged of the errors of 
Rome!” 

“Why, then, should you wish to unite with 
a Church which, according to your ideas, still 
retains these errors?” inquired Sophy, who 
disliked religious discussions. She turned 
again to her mother: “What are your plans? 
What is Evodia going to do?” 

“We shall go abroad. I shall say that she 
means to study singing in Italy. No doubt 
she will do so when she has recovered a little, 
and it is better to have a definite programme. 
People ask so many questions. I shall go to 
Aix for my cure as soon as possible, and, of 
course, she will come with me. This has up- 
set me very much ! I was in agonies with gout 
last night! It is always bad for me to be so 
agitated! And just when everything seemed 
so perfect!” 

“Alas — the perfect man was a man of 
straw!” said Axel, “and the fairy palace of 
Mollingmere a house of cards. I think I 
should regret losing Mollingmere more than 
losing Felix ; there must be quantities of good- 
looking young men quite as well-bred and 
quite as rich and handsome as Felix. There 
can be only one Mollingmere !” He shrugged 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


213 


his shoulders with a gesture indicative of de- 
spair. “I wish I could go with you to Aix, 
dear belle-mere , but I do not find the cure so 
diminishing as Homburg. And I weigh 
more than I did last year! No, Sophy, I do 
not weigh a stone more — twelve pounds at the 
outside ! I had on my winter coat that day, and 
I am positive, too, that slot-machine was in- 
accurate. I shall never get on one of those 
things again. I hate to see my avoirdupois 
so publicly and crudely recorded with its tire- 
some platitudes of what one should weigh 
when in health!” 

“It is all because you refuse to be dieted,” 
said Sophy. “Lina won’t let Fred touch 
bread or potatoes, and he has lost ever so many 
pounds !” 

“I should be a shadow in a week if I were 
Lina’s husband,” said Axel; “I refuse to deny 
myself any of the so-called pleasures of the 
table. Life has so few joys, and I find it hard 
to regard the daily one of dinner in a spirit 
of detachment!” Changing the subject, he 
turned abruptly to Lady Beaufoy. “Who 
spread the nets so delicately for poor Felix’s 
unwary and innocent feet?” 

“Some stupid Franciscan friar, who went to 
Mollingmere quite by chance — he’d lost his 


214 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


way — he nearly died in the night, too. If he 
had only gone to some other house in the 
neighborhood we should have been spared all 
this!” 

“Deliberate malice of Fate!” said Axel; “no 
wonder she is portrayed as three women. One 
woman alone could never perpetrate so much 
gratuitous harm. I suppose he was a very 
eloquent friar?” 

“He was too ill to say much, I believe,” 
said Lady Beaufoy; “and now he is dead. 
Felix unfortunately was asked by the doctor 
to take him back to Cossoway, and he saw him 
die and witnessed all the absurd superstitious 
things they do when anything like that hap- 
pens. Now you see the result!” 

James Bryden looked at her with a stern air 
of disapproval. Was he not seeking to revive 
these very practices in the Church of England? 
People like Lady Beaufoy retarded the cause 
he and others had so much at heart ! 

“I wonder at his being so underhand 
though,” said Sophy; “why didn’t he tell her?” 

“I suppose he wasn’t allowed to,” said Axel; 
“they didn’t want to let such a valuable prey 
slip through their fingers. I cannot help 
dwelling with delight upon their present disap- 
pointment !” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


215 


To him it was simply incredible that a man 
of nearly thirty, in full possession of all his 
senses and faculties, should run any risk of 
forfeiting both wealth and property. A weak, 
hysterical and foolish woman one could under- 
stand being so influenced, as the proper quarry 
for designing itinerant friars! But a man — 
and a man especially of Felix’s type — that was 
quite another matter. However, with these 
reserved people one never knew; they were al- 
ways dangerous! Axel had always been puz- 
zled by Felix. He did not care for sport; 
he rode well, which was scarcely surprising, as 
he had ridden since he was a tiny child. He 
shot rather because he had to, for the coverts 
at Mollingmere were exceptional, rather than 
because he liked it. Still he was a good shot. 
He showed no eagerness for these amusements. 
Music was a passion with him, and, in Axel’s 
opinion, music was hardly a manly passion; 
it was the art of all others except perhaps that 
of poetry, which should be severely relegated 
to professional persons! 

“And where is he hiding his so-diminished 
head?” he inquired. 

“Evodia is not sure. He talked of going 
back to Westonside, where he was received, 
until he could hear of some work!” 


216 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“Ah, he will end by being a monk,” said 
Axel; “I always thought there was something 
very medieval about Felix; he will illuminate 
manuscripts and play the organ! He will be 
intensely happy, and die young, beloved by 
all the community! I can see it all happen- 
ing.” He screwed up his pale, astute eyes 
as if he were peering into the future. “And 
Evodia must marry — perhaps she will think 
about Herton now. Herton is not so beauti- 
ful, but he is much more of a man! He has 
always praised her singing — he said once she 
was far and away the best amateur in London!” 

“Did he really?” said Lady Beaufoy. “I 
am sure he is an excellent judge!” She said 
this because his name had at one time been 
freely coupled with a foreign star of the oper- 
atic world, who, it was said, had turned a deaf 
ear to his proposals. Lady Beaufoy had long 
mentally included this rich peer upon her list 
of eligibles. But he was at least twenty years 
older than Evodia, and could not be called 
anything but astonishingly, almost humorously 
plain. Would he be able to efface the haunt- 
ing beauty of Felix Scaife’s image? She 
sighed, and was thankful when her daughters 
rose to depart. 


BOOK II 


“C’6tait un petit etre si tranquille, si timide et si silencieux. . . . 
C’etait un pauvre petit etre myst^rieux, comme tout le monde.” 


Pelltas et Mtlisande. 


CHAPTER I 

heneyer Lady Beaufoy looked back 



V V upon that summer spent abroad with 
Evodia she was unable to recall a single in- 
stance when her quite admirable self-control 
left her. In her happiest days she had never 
been animated; she had always lacked the 
natural gaiety which characterized Lady Beau- 
foy’s own daughters, and if these two qualities 
were now more conspicuously absent than be- 
fore, there was, on the other hand, no definite 
indication in her manner or expression of any 
interior sadness or struggle. She had fallen 
in with all her aunt’s arrangements and plans 
with apparent contentment, and if she neither 
displayed alacrity nor eagerness, she at least 
made no remonstrance, no suggestion that 
everything was not in perfect accord with her 
own wishes. Her one request had been that 


218 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


she might leave town immediately, and she 
waited at Boulogne until Lady Beaufoy was 
ready to join her. From there they went to 
Paris for a few weeks, and, early in J uly, went 
on to Aix. At Aix Lady Beaufoy pursued 
her cure assiduously, and she was glad to have 
Evodia with her; she found her quiet, atten- 
tive ways restful, especially when she remem- 
bered how bored and restless Milly and Sophy 
had always been under similar circumstances. 
Evodia also bore the intolerable dullness of the 
after-cure at a quiet Swiss resort in extremely 
changeable weather without any manifesta- 
tion of that revolt which even Lady Beaufoy 
unashamedly displayed in surroundings at 
once uncongenial and cold. When this further 
period of retirement was at an end they pro- 
ceeded to the Riff el Alp. Among the little 
ardent band of Alpine climbers who thronged 
that fastness in August, Lady Beaufoy became 
aware that her niece compelled attention. It 
is true that as far as possible she abstained 
from making any acquaintances, but this, in 
her aunt’s eyes, was a desirable quality. She 
herself generally found one or two old friends 
with whom she could indulge in occasional tea 
and gossip ; it was a little difficult to get Evodia 
to join her; she preferred to sit out in the pine 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


219 


woods and read. Lady Beaufoy was amused 
and a little perplexed when a lively French- 
woman, possessing a rich, young son, ap- 
proached her with a definite offer of marriage 
on behalf of this youthful person, who had, 
she affirmed, fallen desperately in love with 
madame’s niece, Miss Essex, who was at once 
so beautiful and so distinguished-looking. 
This episode, while it materially shortened 
their sojourn at the Riff el Alp, served to re- 
awaken hope in the heart of Lady Beaufoy 
concerning Evodia’s future prospects. The 
shadowy form of Lord Herton took definite 
shape in her mind. Perhaps in a year or two 
' — Girls who had been disappointed very 
often ended by making very sensible marriages ; 
they had experienced the folly of falling in 
love, and were more prepared to consider ma- 
terial advantages. As she was immersed in 
this meditation she happened to raise her eyes, 
and, looking across the terrace of the hotel, 
she saw Evodia approaching. She wore white, 
and the dark background of pine trees made 
a charming setting for her slight, agile figure. 
She had more color, too, and the wind had dis- 
arranged her hair from its usual order ; it gave 
her a more girlish look. She certainly pre- 
sented no broken-hearted aspect; she did not 


220 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


even look, as so many people would have done, 
either unhappy or depressed. 

But then — had she not always been cheer- 
ful? — if, indeed, one could use the word at all 
of any one so habitually, so unnaturally — pas- 
sive. All through those weeks abroad, coming 
as they had done on the very heels of the dis- 
aster of her engagement, she had always been 
companionable, solicitous for her aunt’s com- 
fort, unwearyingly attentive, ready to fall in 
with any fresh proposal or plan. Nothing 
about her suggested such emotions as regret, 
or sorrow, or repining. Yet Lady Beaufoy 
had sometimes felt — though she would hardly 
admit it even to herself — that she was in the 
presence of a sphinx woman, who alone knew 
the answer to her own riddle, and equally re- 
fused to divulge it. There was a riddle, of 
course, or why should she be so silent? Had 
she really cared for Felix? Or, had she only 
cared for those foolishly forfeited possessions? 
From the first day of her engagement until 
now she had never given any clue as to the 
state of her affections, how far they were in- 
volved, if indeed they were involved at all. 
She now never spoke of the episode. She never 
mentioned Felix’s name. She seemed to be 
quite, as it were, futureless. She was con- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


221 


tented, indifferent, acquiescent ; even that 
night when she had broken off her engagement 
she had not revealed anything. At this point 
of her meditation, which absorbed her mind 
much more than she would have cared to admit, 
Lady Beaufoy would involuntarily conjure up 
a vision of Felix Scaife, and it proved always 
a disquieting image, which might well give the 
lie to all her hypotheses. She saw his face, so 
carven, so beautiful, with its perfect lines, its 
serene expression. She could see him again as 
she had seen him last in the hall of her London 
house, his white, agonized face forbidding any 
questioning on her part. She tried to see him 
as a young girl might see him — a girl who had 
accepted him as her lover, who, in a few weeks, 
had promised to be his wife, and she felt sure 
that, apart from any worldly possessions, this 
Felix must surely be able to win the whole- 
hearted love of any woman — a faithful and 
enduring love. Yet whatever Evodia’s feeling 
for him may have been, she had quite deliber- 
ately and of her own will cast him aside. She 
had ended the engagement without any ap- 
parent hesitation, with a finality, too, which 
admitted of no discussion. She had accepted 
him and then renounced him all within the 
space of a few short weeks. Was Axel right 


222 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


then in saying that she had only cared for what 
Felix could give her — for Mollingmere, that 
gray stately Sussex mansion, with its setting 
of blue woods, the wide, pale lake, the green 
enfolding pasture-land, the delicious views over 
the downs? Was this all that had counted? 
Lady Beaufoy was completely baffled. She 
could come to no conclusion. It is true that 
when she first told her that the young French 
baron wished to marry her, Evodia had turned 
first crimson and then deadly pale, answering, 
after a brief pause: “I shall never marry.” 
And, in the meantime, by studiously ignoring 
the matter, which probably occupied both 
their minds to the exclusion of all other things 
— it was quite possible for the two women to 
live a very tolerable life together. They liked 
each other, they never quarreled nor bickered; 
all their intercourse was friendly and mutually 
tolerant. Evodia had always been accustomed 
to sink her own personality in that of another ; 
she was unselfish from habit and training; she 
had not shared the shadowed chamber of 
Augusta during so many years for nothing! 
It seemed now as if she had little care for any- 
thing except Lady Beaufoy’s physical com- 
fort and well-being. She carried her wraps, 
lest she should feel the sudden swift changes 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


223 


of temperature, at all times dangerous to per- 
sons who were nervous about their health, in 
the higher regions of the Alps; she conducted 
her correspondence in all matters pertaining to 
business; she read to her when she felt lazy, 
and wished to lie on the sofa; she was, in fact, 
her willing slave. It was a condition of things 
which Lady Beaufoy appreciated. She had 
lively recollections of the scenes of tears and 
recriminations in the old days when she had 
insisted that either Milly or Sophy should ac- 
company her abroad for her annual cure. 
Good as they had been, this was the point 
upon which they had ever rebelled. They used 
to draw lots in private to decide which of them 
should thus be immolated upon the altar of 
filial duty. Lady Beaufoy, never at the best 
of times exacting, and always ready to indulge 
them, was on this very point adamant. She 
disliked going alone, but she could never in- 
duce them to accompany her with any show 
of alacrity or submission. Sophy had latterly 
even retaliated by making all sorts of undesir- 
able hotel acquaintances, furiously encouraging 
the most hopelessly ineligible men, to the entire 
destruction of her mother’s peace of mind. 
Therefore Evodia’s passive behavior was by 
contrast eminently tranquilizing. Out of 


224 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

gratitude Lady Beaufoy, in her turn, respected 
her evident desire for silence, and renounced 
her own fervent wish to know more of what 
was passing in her niece’s mind. She would 
have been, too, a little afraid to probe. To 
risk the destruction of existing serenity is, after 
all, fool’s work. And even Axel — the in- 
quisitive, prying, gossiping, busybody of an 
Axel — had not had the courage to allude to 
the subject in Evodia’s presence. 

Thus, while Evodia submitted and ac- 
quiesced, Lady Beaufoy was aware that the 
girl remained complete mistress of the situa- 
tion. When the fresh complication of the 
young French baron had to be faced, Lady 
Beaufoy inquired if she would like now to re- 
turn to London. “We have been abroad for 
four months now,” she said, “and we could 
spend September in Scotland if you like. And 
in October Milly is expecting her baby.” 

Evodia’s face was frozen into a dull calm; 
for the moment Lady Beaufoy actually 
dreaded that the mask was going to be dragged 
away. But, after a moment’s hesitation, she 
said quietly: “I will do whatever you wish, 
and if Milly wants you — ” 

“Oh, I shouldn’t dream of going back only 
on her account!” said Lady Beaufoy. “I 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


225 


was wondering if you were getting tired of — 
of moving about !” 

“I am not at all tired of it,” said Evodia; 
“I should like to carry out our original plan 
of going to Italy. We might take that little 
villa near Genoa for a few weeks. There will 
be sunshine, and September is a nice month 
in Italy.” 

She ended rather abruptly. Lady Beaufoy 
fancied she could detect a sharp note of pain 
through the quietness of her voice. 

“That will suit me perfectly,” she said 
quickly; “I am very tired of London, and 
Milly’s baby can come into the world perfectly 
without my assistance! I shall write at once 
to my old friend the Princess Aloisia, and find 
out if her friends still wish to let their villino. 
A little hot sunshine will do us both good. We 
might go on to Rome later, if you wished.” 

“That would be perfect,” said Evodia. 
She stooped and kissed her aunt, a rare dem- 
onstration on her part, which gave sufficient 
evidence of the relief the proposed arrange- 
ment had been to her. 

“I shall never get her back to England,” 
mused Lady Beaufoy; “I could see that the 
bare idea of it made her quite ill! Perhaps 
Aloisia will be able to suggest something.” 


CHAPTER II 


T he Princess Aloisia Somellini inhabited 
an ancient villa, or rather palace, on the 
Albaro Hill outside Genoa. She was by birth 
a Frenchwoman, and until her marriage she 
had lived all her life in France, but that was 
so long ago she professed herself to have en- 
tirely forgotten it. At the age of twenty she 
had married a prince of the Italian nobility, 
with the royal blood of at least two countries 
in his veins. It was a love match, and the 
union had proved one of those perfectly happy 
ones which in pagan days were believed to 
awaken the jealous frenzy of the gods. After 
ten years of unalloyed happiness her husband 
had one day sailed across the bay to Porto 
Fino in his yacht. A sudden and violent 
storm set in soon after he had started upon 
his homeward journey. He had never re- 
turned alive. His body was thrown up some 
days later on the great rocks of San Giuliano. 
People said that he must have met his death 
within sight of the windows of his own home. 
The monks found him and carried him into 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


227 


their convent that overlooked the sea. Thither 
the Princess had been summoned, after three 
days spent by her in ceaseless prayer and vigil. 
During those days hope and fear fought for 
the mastery in her heart. She dared not hope, 
and she would not permit herself to fear. 
Through nights of watching she had kneeled 
in prayer in the little chapel that was attached 
to the villa. No one dared to remonstrate 
with her nor disturb her. Her son was then 
too young to be told of her anxiety. And on 
the fourth day, when she was almost worn out 
with her prolonged fasting and vigil, the Abbot 
of the monastery had come to fetch her. He 
had been for many years a most intimate friend 
both of hers and her husband. With him she 
went down the steep and tortuous lanes and 
along the rocky path by the sea that led down 
to the monastery. And there he left them 
alone together — the living and the dead. 

The Princess was a devout woman, and she 
bore this overwhelming grief with a strange 
fortitude. She had a very long illness, from 
which at one time it was thought that she could 
not possibly recover; when she did so, it was 
seen that her hair, once of glossy black, was 
blanched to complete whiteness. She took her 
boy, who was then about five years old, and 


MS PRISONERS’ YEARS 

for a whole decade she lived in Rome and 
Florence, never visiting during all that time 
the old villa on the Albaro Hill. She had but 
one temporal wish — to live away from sound 
and sight of the sea. Even on warm, wind- 
less nights in Rome — such nights when the 
Eternal City can seem the stillest place in all 
the world — she used sometimes to fancy that 
she could hear the sudden rush of the storm, 
the beating of the waves on the cliff below the 
garden, the fierce splashing of the spray. 

But Isidoro was fast growing up; his head 
was almost on a level with her own; he was 
fifteen years old. She began to feel that it was 
not right to keep him quite away from all as- 
sociation with the home that would one day 
be his. She nerved herself to return to Genoa, 
the scene alike of her supreme happiness and 
her supreme sorrow. And now for twelve 
years she had lived in the old villa, a secluded, 
contented life. 

The villa stood up conspicuously above the 
dark groves of ilex and cypress, and the deep 
belt of stone pines that protected it from the 
strong southerly gales which had so distorted 
their own shapes. It presented an irregular 
mass of creamy walls and towers standing in 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


229 


the midst of the trees and surrounded by fertile 
vineyards and olive-groves. Within its walls 
many a scene of violence had taken place in 
the days when Genoa the Proud fought her 
great rival Venice for the supremacy of the 
seas. Countless treasures of pictures and 
china, of embroideries and delicately wrought 
tapestries, filled the spacious rooms, giving 
them an air of faded splendor, that seemed 
to make an admirable setting for the beautiful 
woman who lived there in such solitude. For 
herself she had chosen the smallest suite of 
rooms that the villa contained. To look at 
them, one would say they were the cells of 
some religious order, so bare and sparsely 
furnished were they, with their plain white 
walls, their wooden chairs and table, the little 
iron-bedstead. The only adornment consisted 
of an old and exquisitely carven Crucifix hang- 
ing above the bed, a della Robbia stoup for 
holy water, and a lovely little picture of the 
Madonna and Child, said to be the early work 
of Fra Lippo Lippi. 

The Princess was tall and very slender; in 
spite of her fifty years she had lost little of 
the beauty for which she had been famous. 
She was quite inaccessible to tourists, and in- 
deed seldom went beyond the great gray walls 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


that enclosed her own vineyards except to per- 
form some work of piety or charity. People 
called her proud, whereas she was only follow- 
ing the natural instinct of those who have re- 
ceived a mortal wound and desire to hide it 
from curious gaze. It must be admitted that 
to those who have endured a great sorrow it 
is permitted to grasp the lesser consolations 
of life, to seek peace where once joy reigned. 
But to the poor and the suffering she was al- 
ways generous and accessible, visiting them and 
tending them with an indescribable tenderness ; 
indeed, to be poor and desolate made always 
an immediate appeal to her. Her figure 
dressed in plain dark garments, her face hid- 
den by a long and rather thick veil, was a fa- 
miliar sight in the little chapel belonging to 
the Sacramentini nuns at Albaro, especially 
at the hour of their evening Benediction. 

Isidoro was seldom in Italy ; he had a roving 
disposition, a quite abnormal love of traveling 
and adventure. From the first his mother saw 
that it would be cruel to check him. He had 
been on a Royal Expedition to the Polar 
regions, an experience he had no desire to re- 
peat, and on another occasion had joined a 
party of intrepid young Englishmen in an 
exploration of Africa, from the Congo to the 


PRISONERS’ YEARS SSI! 

East Coast. He had been one of only two 
survivors among the Europeans of the expe- 
dition, and the fact had sobered him somewhat, 
but the Princess, who had now had him with 
her for nearly two years, knew that the day 
could not be far distant when he would come, 
put his arms lovingly round her neck and en- 
treat her to permit him to go away, to what 
dangerous portion of the globe she could not 
possibly imagine or even essay to guess. He 
was fortunately strong and hardy, of the 
same fine physique as his father, and the 
Princess, who had cultivated detachment, was 
content to let him go, whenever he so desired, 
and prayed daily that he might come to no 
harm. He was the idol of her heart — the one 
pledge that had been vouchsafed to her of 
those years of beautiful love. 

Her villa was close to the sea; the gardens 
and vineyards sloped down almost to the edge 
of the cliffs with a narrow strip planted with 
pines and olive-trees sheltering a terrace that 
overlooked the bay. Great palms and orange- 
trees fringed one side of the walk. It was a 
charming spot, and the Princess passed a great 
deal of her time there, especially in summer 
when she worked and read and wrote her 
letters out of doors. Genoa was completely 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


hidden by an outstanding spur of cliff, but 
there was a magnificent view of the coast south- 
ward, terminating in the long arm, colored in 
every tone of amethyst and sapphire, of Porto 
Fino, stretching its splendid outline far into 
the sea. 

Lady Beaufoy had known the Princess for 
many years, although never very intimately. 
She had seen her several times during her self- 
imposed exile in Rome, and was now anxious 
to renew acquaintance with her. She felt that 
it would be a desirable house to which to take 
Evodia the moment she appeared at all willing 
to go anywhere. The Princess was musical, 
which was sure to create a bond between them, 
and Lady Beaufoy had also learned with sat- 
isfaction that the wandering Isidoro also re- 
sembled his mother in this respect. Lady 
Beaufoy would scarcely have been human if 
her thoughts had not tended albeit indefinitely 
Isidoro-wards at this juncture, for she had 
ascertained that he was both handsome and 
rich, having been left a considerable fortune 
by a childless aunt. All that could be said 
against him was that his passion for sport was 
so strong that it had prevented him from 
“settling down,” or, in other words, present- 
ing his mother with a daughter-in-law. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


Unfortunately Lady Beaufoy was prevented 
from seeing this prize for herself when the first 
opportunity offered, for she had caught cold 
on her journey owing to a difference of 
opinion between herself and a fellow-passenger 
on the subject of draughts, in which she had 
been completely worsted. She was therefore 
in bed when the Princess sent down a charm- 
ingly worded little note begging her to bring 
her niece to luncheon, and Evodia, rather than 
disappoint her, agreed to go alone. Her 
habitual indifference to all things seemed to 
make her accept, without effort, this invita- 
tion. She had arrived at the point when 
agreeable acquaintances are more tolerable 
than intimate friends. 

“I suppose she will sit there as silent as a 
mute,” thought Lady Beaufoy ; “and the young 
Prince will think her more stupid than most 
Englishwomen. Italians are so animated!” 
She made this reflection rather ruefully. “If 
she would only tell me plainly she is fretting 
over Felix, she would be so much easier to un- 
derstand!” 

But whatever Isidoro’s opinion might be of 
the pretty if silent English girl who graced 
his mother’s table that day, the Princess’s im- 
pression was wholly favorable. She took an 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


immediate fancy to this Miss Essex, with her 
quiet, reserved manner and her charming, slow, 
cold voice. 

“I have not seen your aunt for many years,” 
she told Evodia ; “we met last in Rome. She 
came with her two little girls — they were quite 
children then and very fair and pretty. She 
spoiled them a great deal, I remember. They 
are married now, she told me in her letter, and 
both have babies. They were both a little 
younger than my son — perhaps three or four 
years. It was a surprise to me to get her 
letter. But people say that if you live long 
enough in Genoa you will meet every one you 
have ever known. I have another friend com- 
ing to-day — my cousin, Comtesse de Clair- 
ville. She is motoring through Italy and is 
now on her way back to France. She is 
charming, and I am glad that you will meet 
each other.” 

They were standing by the window of the 
great salon, which almost filled the whole 
length of the mezzanino . It faced the sea 
which to-day looked as if some gigantic web 
of sapphire and pearl had been flung over its 
entire surface. The October sunshine lay in 
bars of gold on the fragile silver of the olive- 
trees and upon the wide vineyards, where the 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


leaves showed sparsely in splashes of scarlet 
and yellow across the gray stone pergolas. 
Where the waves touched the shore the thin 
line of foam, with its frayed crystal edges, 
shone as if encrusted with diamonds. 

A young man entered the room with hurried 
step. He was dark, thin, and Southern-look- 
ing with his olivart complexion, his sleek, 
black hair and somber eyes. Seeing Evodia, 
he bowed, and the Princess introduced them. 
“You have not met each other before,” she 
said, “but I can assure you Isidoro used often 
to play with Milly and Sophy in the Borghese 
Gardens.” She could not help thinking to 
herself: “I only hope he will not fall in love 
with her. She is very beautiful, especially 
when she smiles.” 

Isidoro addressed Evodia in English, which 
he spoke well and fluently, having spent many 
months in Africa with people who knew no 
other language. “Do you like Genoa?” he 
said. “As a rule English people do not care 
for it; they only stop a few days on their 
way to Rome. It is such a commercial town, 
and most of the English people here are in 
some manner connected with commerce. They 
do not live here because they love Italy like 
your compatriots who make Rome or Florence 


236 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


their home. But the palaces are beautiful, 
are they not? And so are many of the 
churches, while the views are incomparable !” 

She answered: “I have never been in Italy 
before. We always went to France or Ger- 
many or Switzerland. It all seems very 
beautiful here — to me. The sea and the 
mountains and the vineyards and your beauti- 
ful Porto Fino!” 

“Ah, that is a magician!” said Isidoro, smil- 
ing. “You can hardly ever find him in the 
same mood two days running. Just now he is 
like a wonderful jewel, is he not? — like one 
of our pale Italian amethysts. Sometimes he 
looks all dark and glowing with a kind of wild, 
threatening fury. Then he is sulky, and hides 
himself in stormy weather and refuses for 
days to show his nose! But, whenever you 
do see him, he is beautiful!” 

“There is Nicolette!” said the Princess, 
leaning a little out of the window ; from with- 
out they could hear the dull throb of an auto- 
mobile on the hard-rolled drive. 

“In a great red automobile, twenty sizes too 
big for her!” said Isidoro, stretching his neck 
out to obtain a glimpse of the car and its oc- 
cupant. “Ah — te voila Nicolette !” he shouted. 
The two had known each other as children, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


237 


and had never dropped the familiar “thee and 
thou,” although Nicolette sometimes rebuked 
the youth for using it now that she had, as she 
said, “a cross, gouty old husband, and two 
screaming and horrible children!” 

He turned to Miss Essex. “My cousin is 
so gay and charming,” he said, “one can never 
be dull with her. And now that she has es- 
caped from her dull old prison at Arles for 
a few weeks she will be more delightful than 
ever!” 

“Isidoro will give you the idea that Nicolette 
is not happy,” said the Princess, smiling, and 
laying her hand for an instant on her son’s 
arm with a tender gesture, “but she is one of 
the happiest women alive. She has a husband 
who adores her and two of the sweetest chil- 
dren you ever saw!” 

There was a little pause before Nicolette 
was announced, and already Isidoro had flung 
himself down the stairs, two steps at a time, 
to welcome her. “Nicki,” he whispered, “my 
mother is entertaining a young English god- 
dess. You never saw anything so lovely in 
all your life! Only she is made of snow and 
ice, like all her countrywomen — how one longs 
to set them in a blaze !” 

“Silly boy!” said Nicolette, as she climbed 


238 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


the stairs. As she entered the salon there was 
little to be seen of her but a small elfin face 
and a pair of enormous blue eyes. Clouds 
of gauze enveloped her head, and she wore an 
immense wrap, dust-colored and made of some 
soft silken material. She rushed eagerly for- 
ward into the arms of the Princess and em- 
braced her warmly. “Dearest!” she said, “I 
despaired of ever seeing you again ! I thought 
indeed we should never arrive here. Oh, I 
have only come from Rapallo this morning, 
but you cannot imagine anything like the hills 
and the dust! It was lovely nevertheless, and 
your villa looks more beautiful than ever! 
Oh, I am so glad to be back! I shall stay a 
long, long time. I shall never want to go back 
to Arles!” 

“And what will Arles say?” asked the 
Princess with an indulgent smile. 

“Arles will enjoy the grievance. But you 
know I spoil him to such an extent that this 
time I could hardly get away at all. And the 
entreaties I have received to return! They 
would melt any heart not so hard as mine. 
So now he threatens that he will learn to fly!” 

“He would never have the nerve, so don’t 
be afraid,” said Isidoro, calmly. “Even I, 
with my nerves of iron, felt inclined to cry: 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


239 


‘Please put me down! Oh, I will give you 
a thousand francs if you will only put me down 
this minute !’ ” 

“You were always a coward,” said Nicolette, 
smiling at him with one of her brilliant smiles. 

The Princess introduced Evodia to Madame 
de Clairville, and almost immediately they 
went into an adjoining apartment for lunch- 
eon. Nicolette ate little; she played, however, 
with innumerable dishes, saying that she had 
eaten nothing but spaghetti for a fortnight and 
was getting too fat. She chattered cease- 
lessly. There was something so fresh and 
frank about her that Evodia was won a little 
from her reserve and talked in a manner which 
would have delighted Lady Beaufoy if she 
could have been present. 

“So you have come back at last from all 
those savage places,” said Nicolette at last, 
turning to her cousin, who sat gravely smiling 
at her. “And how many lions did you kill? 
Or were they tigers? Were you very fright- 
ened? Confess that you were horribly 
frightened!” 

“I was horribly frightened,” said Isidoro, 
“and I had no one to hold my hand and give 
me courage. But I shot two lions— such 
beauties, it seemed almost like murder to kill 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


240 

them. But the only alternative was to let them 
kill me, and I did not feel unselfish enough 
for that!” 

“You are horrible,” said Nicolette, survey- 
ing him calmly; “why can you not stay here 
and look after your vineyards like any other 
sensible Italian?” 

“My mother looks after them admirably,” 
he said pensively. “There is really nothing 
for me to do!” 

“You are hopeless — I give you up in de- 
spair!” she said with a shrug of her pretty 
slender shoulders. “You waste such precious 
years in the jungle — years of youth, when you 
could enjoy yourself in a thousand agreeable 
ways! years that you could devote to falling 
in love with — with charming people!” 

“But I could not possibly love any one but 
you, Nicki! And you were absurd enough 
to fall in love with de Clairville, although he 
has the gout and I have not!” 

“He has not got the gout!” declared Nico- 
lette with pretended indignation; “just a 
touch of rheumatism — it is an excuse for en- 
joying himself at Aix or Spa or somewhere. 
By the way, I met one of your countrywomen 
in Rome,” she continued, turning to Evodia. 
“She was staying with some friends of mine, 


Ml 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 

and we traveled together as far as Pisa. 
Then I found I could not endure her chatter 
any longer, so I decided that as the thunder- 
storms seemed to be over I would come on alone 
in the auto. You see, I like to talk sometimes, 
and she wouldn’t let me! A gay, foolish lit- 
tle thing, dressed as the English do sometimes 
dress, mademoiselle — with great beads around 
her neck, and no collar, and her red hair 
screwed up into a heap ! Her name was Mrs. 
Sceff , and her husband is in diplomacy. . . 

“Scaife?” said Evodia. “It must have been 
Genevieve. . . .” 

“Yes — her name was Genevieve — so she 
told me. Indeed, what did she not tell me? 
The poor diplomatist, who is her husband, 
will have to teach her to curb her tongue, for 
I have never met any one half so indiscreet! 
The stories she told me! Indescribable! She 
is young and has got a little baby — the image 
of herself, she says, red hair and all. It is a 
girl, and they wanted a boy — it seems there is 
a property and a title to be inherited. But 
she left it in Bucharest or Belgrade, or what- 
ever the name of the place is. She told me 
she did not understand it, and it was too young 
to do anything but cry.” 

“I think I know her,” said Evodia; “I think 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


I know her quite well. Is she coming to 
Genoa?” There was some alarm in her voice. 

“Ah — I have been indiscreet perhaps?” said 
Nicolette, instantly contrite. “But she is 
surely not a friend of yours — this one of the 
low neck and the blue beads?” 

“No — not exactly a friend,” said Evodia, 
wondering how she could best describe the 
woman who had once been so nearly her sister- 
in-law. “But we once stayed together in the 
same house. The baby — it is not very old?” 

“Only a few weeks,” answered Nicolette, 
whose curiosity was now awakened, for she 
had been exceedingly puzzled by Genevieve’s 
personality, and had been quite unable to place 
her in any stereotyped social category. In 
appearance she had not looked quite like a lady 
to the critical Frenchwoman. “Did you meet 
her perhaps in the house of the ferocious grand- 
father? She has recounted all that history to 
me. How he is so furious with the elder son 
that he has sent him away without a farthing. 
In England it seems that can be done — a na- 
tion of such strange laws and customs. Now 
here it is not so; is it, Aloisia? The money 
must be divided — each child receiving a mini- 
mum portion, whether the parent likes it or 
not. But in England there is no such cus- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


243 


tom; and unless there is an entail, if one does 
something to annoy — pouf! he gets not a sou! 
Mrs. Sceff will profit by it, for it is a fine 
property with much — but very much money.” 
She rattled on gaily, and Evodia, who was 
now unspeakably dreading further revelations, 
had become pale and silent. 

The haunted shadow of her lover — despoiled, 
plundered, stripped of all, an outcast of for- 
tune — had followed her even here! 

“He is a friend of yours then, this ferocious 
Sir Sceff?” inquired Nicolette. 

“He is not a friend — but I know him,” said 
Evodia with an effort. 

“You do not like him perhaps?” 

“I do not like him.” 

“Ah, then I am quite safe in continuing 
this child’s extraordinary story,” said Nico- 
lette, who would have been fearfully disap- 
pointed if discretion had decreed otherwise. 
“But perhaps you knew the elder grandson — 
this poor good-for-nothing?” She did not, 
however, wait for a reply, but went on eagerly : 
“Let me see, what was his crime? At first 
when she began to tell me about it, I thought 
he must have committed a murder at the very 
least! But no! I remember ... he sud- 
denly became a Catholic — it was an extraordi- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


344 

nary conversion. It seems that is a terrible 
thing to do in England! You hate the re- 
ligion almost as much as the French Govern- 
ment hates it! Such a curious thing!” she 
added musingly. “Oh, I am not devout, like 
my beloved Aloisia here,” and she smiled be- 
witchingly upon the Princess ; “but it is an ex- 
cellent religion; and besides, it is a great 
comfort when one is ill or dying or in trouble 
of any kind. Mademoiselle is not Catho - 
lique ¥* 

“No — I am not,” said Evodia, wondering 
how long she could endure to be thus impaled. 

“So he was sent away — out of the house 
that very day — never to come back, and the 
husband of Mrs. Sceff is restored to favor. 
She was glad — very naturally — for she and her 
husband are always in debt, because the old 
man would never give them any tiling ; but now 
he gives to them and they are well off. But 
I felt sorry for the other one; I am sure he 
was a good boy and very serious. I wish there 
were more like him in France — young men 
ready to sacrifice everything for the Faith!” 
And the eyes of the little worldling glowed. 

“Is he married?” asked the Princess. 

“No — fortunately he was not, but he was, 
it seems, on the very point of being married, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


245 


only his fiancee evidently could not face the 
idea of such poverty, for she broke off the en- 
gagement immediately upon hearing that he 
was disinherited.” 

“She could not have cared for him, and she 
must have been quite unworthy of him. What 
a sad story!” said the Princess, rising. “As 
it is so warm, we may as well have our coffee 
out of doors; it is delightfully sunny on the 
terrace. Isidoro, give Nicki some cigarettes. 
I am sure she has not given up any of her bad 
habits.” 

She had become suddenly aware that, for 
some reason unknown to her, the conversation 
was giving pain to Evodia. The girl had 
turned very white, and the sadness of her face 
— that quality which had first so strongly at- 
tracted the elder woman towards her — was in- 
creased. She murmured something to this ef- 
fect in Nicolette’s ear as they led the way into 
the garden, Evodia and Isidoro following at 
a little distance. 

“Do you think I have perhaps made a 
blunder?” said Madame de Clairville. “Ah! 
it is, as I myself suspected, dear Aloisia — 
she took an interest perhaps in this poor Mr. 
Sceff, who has been so shamefully used by 
every one. Perhaps there is some link, and 


246 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


I have been indiscreet, as Pierre continually 
reproaches me for being!” 

“ I do not know anything about her really,” 
said the Princess, “but she certainly looks very 
sad. At first I thought she had lost some one, 
but she does not wear mourning. I will ask 
her aunt about it when I see her. She is a 
niece of my old friend, Lady Beaufoy.” 


CHAPTER III 


I t was one afternoon in the Duomo at 
Genoa that Evodia saw for the first time 
Keith Scaife. 

It came about in this way. The Princess 
had invited her to drive with her that day, 
and, after visiting various places in the town, 
she had suggested that Miss Essex might care 
to see the Church of San Lorenzo, whose 
striped black and white shape overlooks and 
dominates the wide, busy piazza. They found 
chairs near the white marble figure of the 
kneeling Cardinal Pallavicini, whose pale 
effigy everlastingly recalls his unshriven guilt. 
Having apostatized in England, he married an 
English wife, forgetful of his vows and delib- 
erately abjuring his faith. He has repented 
and confessed, but is still seeking absolution, 
the Italians say, and some day they affirm he 
will receive it, but until then he lingers in the 
torments of purgatory. 

There is something pathetic about that 
lonely, kneeling figure, still entreating, still 


24*8 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


contrite, and seeking absolution across the long 
centuries that have elapsed since his death. 

When the Princess had whispered the out- 
lines of this story to Evodia the girl had lis- 
tened with suppressed impatience. How 
could reasonable people believe such things? 
Only the charm and kindliness of the Princess, 
with whom her friendship was daily increasing, 
made her abstain from uttering an exclama- 
tion of angry incredulity. 

The Princess knelt down, and Evodia sat 
and watched with idle interest the comings and 
goings of the few people, some obviously Eng- 
lish tourists, who were in the church. Sud- 
denly she saw two figures pass close to her. 
They stood side by side near the kneeling Car- 
dinal, bestowing upon him a perfunctory at- 
tention. Evodia recognized the woman im- 
mediately — it was Genevieve, clad in trailing, 
rustling silks, with an immense hat resting 
upon her golden-red hair. Not at first did 
Evodia guess that the man with her must be 
Keith. It was something in one of his move- 
ments that irresistibly recalled Felix to her 
memory, and then she was able to discern the 
very strong family likeness that the two 
brothers bore to each other. Though he was 
smaller and fairer than Felix, Keith undenia- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 249 

bly resembled him. In appeai’ance he was 
perhaps somewhat effeminate-looking; his 
close-cut hair was fair, almost golden, and in- 
clined to curl, his eyes were blue. In none 
of these characteristics did he resemble his 
brother. But it was rather in the quick and 
light step, the turn of the head, the eager look, 
the wide, level brow and firm molded chin that 
the resemblance, at once strong and elusive, 
lay. 

Evidently they were sight-seeing, and were 
“doing” the Duomo as a matter of duty. She 
saw them smile as they passed the kneeling 
Cardinal, and the Chapel of St. John the Bap- 
tist, which no woman may enter under pain of 
excommunication, since it was through a 
woman that the great Precursor met his mar- 
tyrdom. Then they moved leisurely on into 
the choir, with its stalls of exquisite intarsia 
work, where the memory of Paganini and of 
the witchery of his magic music is still passion- 
ately reverenced. Here he sat — here he 
played. 

Evodia watched Genevieve and her husband 
with longing eyes. She wished she could have 
been near enough to them to hear Keith’s 
voice; she wondered if it resembled Felix’s. 
She longed to go forward and speak to Gene- 


250 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


vieve. She realized then for the first time 
how great and tormenting was her desire to 
hear news of Felix after these long months of 
separation, during which no word of him had 
ever reached her. But she knew how impossi- 
ble it was to go and speak to them. For 
Keith, if he cared — and she knew that in spite 
of his selfishness he did care greatly for his 
brother — would most surely blame her bitterly 
for having forsaken him in his moment of need. 
Like Axel, he would certainly condemn her 
for her worldliness, her self-seeking. Nicolette 
de Clairville’s words had burnt deeply into her 
heart ; that brief summing up of her own action, 
“his fiancee evidently could not face the idea 
of such poverty, for she broke off the engage- 
ment immediately upon hearing that he was 
disinherited.” 

Afraid of being recognized by Genevieve, 
when she saw them returning, Evodia buried 
her face in her hands, and knelt down by the 
side of the Princess, who was still deeply ab- 
sorbed in prayer. 

And across the centuries, dumb witness of 
the passing of so many feet, the kneeling Car- 
dinal still entreated forgiveness in the falling 
dusk of the church. 


CHAPTER IV 


S ummer still clung to her rights in the 
South, although October was now well ad- 
vanced, and the garden of the little villa which 
Lady Beaufoy had taken on the Albaro Hill, 
outside Genoa, enjoyed an amount of sunshine 
which the elder lady sincerely hoped would 
put new strength into Evodia, and help her to 
reconstruct life on a new basis. She was 
obliged to acknowledge that the girl had 
changed surprisingly of late. She was tired 
and languid; it was impossible to rouse her. 
Indeed, ever since that chance and fleeting 
sight of Keith and Genevieve in San Lorenzo, 
it must be admitted that Evodia had suffered 
a good deal. She had never mentioned the 
episode, but it had made a strong impression 
upon her, and in her mind it was always con- 
fusedly yet inextricably mixed with the remem- 
brance of the marble figure of the penitent 
Cardinal kneeling in the aisle as if pleading 
for the forgiveness which had not yet been 
granted to him. Symbolic of a faith in purga- 
tory, in the retributive justice consequent upon 


252 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


sin, the story of this apostate son of the Church 
had profoundly impressed Evodia. She won- 
dered if it would ever be her fate to sue thus 
for a pardon withheld, even a temporal par- 
don, in this life. 

Seeing her listlessness. Lady Beaufoy asked 
her again one day if she would prefer to re- 
turn to London, or even perhaps go on to 
Rome. Evodia seemed to like the Princess, 
who, on her side, was disposed to show the girl 
a good deal of kindness, suspecting that some- 
thing had gone awry with that young life. 
She had asked no questions, but she hoped per- 
haps that there would come a day when Evodia 
would tell her about it. 

But Evodia did not seem to wish to move 
even to Rome. “Not yet — perhaps later,” she 
said. “This place does quite well, doesn’t it?” 
She had seen in one of the Italian papers that 
Mr. and Mrs. Keith Scaife had left for Vienna 
on their way to the Balkans, and she was glad 
to think that there was now no chance of a 
meeting. 

They had already been at the villa some 
weeks, and Lady Beaufoy, having recovered 
from her indisposition, went out a good deal, 
generally, it must be said, alone. She was 
wise enough not to try and persuade Evodia 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


253 


to go with her. The girl seemed quite happy, 
quite content in a languid, listless fashion. 
She was thin, and her great dark eyes, with 
their heavy bister shadows, looked altogether 
too large for her small pale face. Lady Beau- 
foy looked at her sometimes with concern. 
She began to be afraid that Evodia might lose 
her looks, and this, in her opinion, was quite 
the worst calamity which could befall a woman. 
She feared, too, that perhaps her mother’s del- 
icacy and fancifulness might develop in the 
daughter. Augusta might have been alive to 
this day if she had only behaved reasonably — 
had braced herself to meet the storms of life 
with fortitude! 

“We will stay here, of course, if you wish 
to,” said Lady Beaufoy. “I was only afraid 
you might be bored. You lead such a quiet 
life!” 

She herself liked Genoa, with its great blue 
spaces of sea and sky, the white streets, full 
of gay crowds, the beautiful Renaissance pal- 
aces, the incomparable views. She felt that 
the sunshine benefited her. She had gone 
through so much — she was still feeling the re- 
action of those very dismal happenings last 
spring ! 

Then something extremely untoward oc- 


254 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


curred. Evodia fell suddenly ill. It had 
been so far one of her most admirable qualities 
in her aunt’s eyes that she was never ill. But 
this illness was definite, sudden, alarming; it 
was also in a very high degree mysterious. 
Evodia was found one morning lying on the 
floor of her little room, quite unconscious. 
She must have fallen, and, in falling, had 
struck her head against the sharp corner of the 
table, for her dark hair was matted at the side 
with something sticky and thick, that had made 
a tiny red stream on the floor. The maid 
rushed away screaming, upon finding her. 
Lady Beaufoy was startled and terrified at 
hearing Hortense’s shrieks of “Mon Dieu — 
mon Dieu — elle est morte!” and she rushed to 
the spot with a display of activity which would 
have been practically impossible for her to 
achieve in calmer moments. Moreover, Hor- 
tense’s screams had nearly frightened her out 
of her wits ; for one dreadful moment she really 
believed that Evodia was dead. Nor was her 
alarm in the least lessened by the sight that 
met her eyes, for Evodia was completely un- 
conscious, and the two women did not dare 
move her. A doctor was sent for, and for 
some time his skill was powerless to restore 
consciousness to that inert figure. The faint- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


255 


in g fit had probably been increased, he said, 
by a slight concussion. He cut off a dark 
strand of hair around the wound and bound 
up her head deftly with quick and practised 
fingers. 

Like many English persons, Lady Beaufoy 
had an inherent distrust of everything foreign, 
and especially of foreign doctors; nevertheless 
this man inspired her with something like con- 
fidence. There was something about the 
shape and movement of his slender knotted 
hands that seemed to assure her that he knew 
his business. But it was nearly half an hour 
before Evodia gave the slightest sign of re- 
turning consciousness. Then she opened her 
eyes and looked round in a dazed, uncompre- 
hending way. 

“There was the Cardinal,” she said rapidly, 
fixing her eyes steadily upon the doctor, “and 
Keith and Genevieve — they didn’t see me. Of 
course it would be useless to talk of forgive- 
ness. . . 

“Try not to talk, dear,” said Lady Beaufoy 
gently. 

“Where am I? I did not know you were 
here, Aunt Susan; I thought we were in 
church. . . .” 

“You are ill — you must have fallen down. 


256 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


You have cut your head, and it has made you 
feel strange,” said her aunt uneasily. 

“She must not speak,” said the doctor in 
French; “she must be kept perfectly quiet. I 
shall give her a sedative — she has need of 
sleep.” 

The sedative was given, and a little later 
Evodia fell into a deep slumber, as of one com- 
pletely exhausted. The doctor drew down the 
blinds, shutting out the sunlight. Then he 
turned to Lady Beaufoy. 

“We can leave her safely now,” he said; 
“but perhaps we had better talk in another 
room — it might disturb her. Oh, you need not 
be afraid! Her pulse is already much bet- 
ter.” 

When he found himself alone with Lady 
Beaufoy he proceeded to question her in a man- 
ner which she at first resented, feeling that it 
was derogatory to her rank and social impor- 
tance. That she submitted with no manifesta- 
tion of annoyance only showed how great her 
alarm and agitation had been. 

“Has the Signorina had a shock?” he de- 
manded with an almost brusque abruptness. 

“Not lately. . . . She had a little trouble and 
worry — about something rather unfortunate 
that occurred six months ago; but I did not 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


257 


think at the time it affected her very much 
— not so much as it might have done some 
girls!” 

“And this trouble? Will you not tell me 
the nature of it — in confidence, madame? I 
must have something to go upon!” 

“She broke off her engagement,” said Lady 
Beaufoy, rather unwillingly. “That is always 
disagreeable for a girl.” 

“Of her own free will? There was no pres- 
sure. used?” 

“Only the pressure of unusual circum- 
stances. She was quite free to act exactly as 
she wished.” 

He raised his brows, shrugged his shoulders. 
Then he said: “The machine has gone on be- 
cause it was a strong one, but it had the 
strength only of very delicate, elaborate ma- 
chinery. It has been sorely taxed and tried, 
and from time to time — if I may use the same 
simile — a few fibers — a few wires, as it were 
— became detached — useless. Madame — na- 
ture always rebels sooner or later — the most 
indomitable fortitude cannot resist ulti- 
mately.” 

“She has always seemed quite well,” said 
Lady Beaufoy, rather indignantly. What on 
earth did the man mean by using such an ex- 


258 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


aggerated expression as the most indomitable 
fortitude? She felt as if he were in some sense 
judging and condemning her. 

“Has she any relations — nearer than your- 
self? If so, they should be sent for with the 
smallest possible delay,” was his next surpris- 
ing declaration. 

“Sent for? Relations? Do you mean to 
tell me that she is in danger?” 

“No doubt you observed that there was a 
little difficulty in bringing her back to con- 
sciousness just now,” he said dryly. “Did not 
this occur to you, madame?” 

“She has never fainted before to my knowl- 
edge. She has been living with me for the last 
two or three years, ever since her mother died. 
She is an orphan — her father was my only 
brother. I am her guardian. There is no 
one to send for. She was an only child, and I 
hope I have always treated her exactly as if 
she were my own daughter!” 

It was difficult to maintain a dignified and 
placid exterior in the presence of this volatile 
and plain-spoken son of the South. 

“These cases are always serious because they 
are so incomprehensible,” he said. “You can 
send for another opinion if you like — I could 
tell you of a first-rate specialist in Milan, who 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


259 


no doubt would come. But if you entrust the 
case to me, I believe myself to be perfectly 
equal to cope with it. Has she been over- 
exerting herself lately — over-fatiguing her- 
self?” 

“I don’t think so. We have been here some 
weeks, and we have been traveling most of the 
summer. I did a cure, and then we went to 
Switzerland. I came here — and I am staying 
on simply to please her. I have suggested 
going on somewhere else but she does not seem 
to wish it!” 

“The machine was beginning to stop!” he 
said with a flash of his brilliant dark eyes that 
almost mesmerized Lady Beaufoy. 

“Until this morning she has been perfectly 
well,” said Lady Beaufoy. She felt — it was 
absurd of course — that she must justify her- 
self in this man’s opinion. 

“Can you tell me what she said just now 
when she came to?” he asked. 

“I did not quite understand it myself. She 
certainly mentioned the names of two people 
— the brother and sister-in-law of her fiance . 
Then she said something about a Cardinal — 
I am quite sure she does not know one — and 
how absurd it would be for her to ask for for- 
giveness !” 


260 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“You gathered perhaps that this business of 
the broken engagement was occupying her 
mind?” 

“In some way that I could not understand. 
I do not think she ever saw his brother, though 
she knew the wife a little,” said Lady Beaufoy ; 
“but I could not possibly explain about the 
Cardinal. It puzzled me very much. She 
does not confide in me.” She made this hu- 
miliating confession with a certain sad dig- 
nity. She was too much alarmed now not to 
be perfectly straightforward. “She does not 
speak of herself. She is very reserved, and I 
have never dared ask her many questions!” 

He said musingly: “A few days more of 
strain, and she might easily have slipped 
through our fingers. Her organization is 
fragile — that is probably hereditary. Fine 
steel — finely tempered — it does not bend — it 
can bear much. And then when endurance 
is exhausted — when nature steps in with her 
batteries — it snaps! Snaps!” He repeated 
the word, making, at the same time, a gesture 
signifying disruption, and his hands, with 
their long, thin brown fingers, were even more 
expressive than his amazingly eloquent eyes. 

“I shall return in a couple of hours or so,” 
he told her; “these cases need watching. If 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


261 


any unfavorable change occurs I shall tell you 
at once, and if you prefer another opinion I 
hope you will have one. I must tell you that 
I am not at present afraid of any unfavor- 
able change. But I am come a little late on the 
scene!” 

“Quite a volcano!” Lady Beaufoy informed 
Hortense after he had departed. “He came 
and went like a tempest — a whirlwind! He 
— tired me out!” She sank into a chair and 
required to be revived with a glass of vermuth, 
respectfully administered by Hortense. 

“Is Mademoiselle still very ill?” she said, 
for she was faithfully devoted to Evodia, and 
beheld in this unhappy episode the hand so 
miserable and calamitous of the unworthy M. 
Felix. 

“Very ill, I am afraid,” was all that Lady 
Beaufoy could truthfully say. It was dis- 
tinctly upsetting that a person who appeared 
one morning in apparently perfect health 
should all of a sudden sink down quietly almost 
to the very gates of death. She felt boulever - 
see , and needed sympathy and attention; her 
nerves were not strong! 

For some days the little doctor seemed to 
live in the house; he was, as Lady Beaufoy de- 
clared, eternally there, and she felt that if he had 


262 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


many other patients they must have been sorely 
neglected. But she could find no fault with 
him, and his efforts to pull Evodia round were 
extraordinarily successful; she felt that it 
would be unnecessary to call in a second opin- 
ion, especially as the Princess assured her that 
he was extremely clever and held French di- 
plomas. His exertions dragged a not too will- 
ing Evodia back to life, to a pale shadow and 
semblance of life, infinitely pathetic to wit- 
ness. She herself made no effort at all, and 
all that could be said of her was that she was 
unresisting. Secretly he had feared that this 
might not be so, and that she would only too 
gladly yield. Nature, too long ousted, now 
held a rigid suzerainty, and it seemed that 
Evodia would have been only too willing to 
slip through the long brown fingers of the little 
Italian doctor. 

This illness, which seemed in fine more men- 
tal than actually physical, at any rate in its 
original cause, was too obviously the outcome 
of protracted nervous exhaustion, suggesting 
indeed a fire that had burnt itself out. It per- 
plexed and bewildered poor Lady Beaufoy, 
who disliked complexities. In the days pre- 
ceding the attack there had been nothing about 
Evodia to suggest the approach of a complete 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


263 


breakdown. Over and over again Lady Beau- 
foy recalled the simple events that had im- 
mediately preceded it. She and Evodia had 
had their morning coffee together, and then it 
was arranged that they should drive into 
Genoa and do some shopping, and perhaps 
a little sight-seeing. Evodia had gone to dress 
for the expedition, when this strange disturb- 
ing thing had happened. Lady Beaufoy 
found herself face to face with a new prob- 
lem, as to how far indeed the strain of con- 
cealing her grief (always supposing that this 
word could be applied to her feelings, after 
her parting with Felix) had contributed to 
this collapse. The doctor had told her that 
at one time it had been so nearly fatal he had 
been unable to foretell the issue. Lady Beau- 
foy now submitted, with perfect docility and 
an assumption of complete confidence, to all 
the arrangements and suggestions that he de- 
sired. She felt far too helpless to take any 
initiative. She had herself sustained a shock 
and a severe shock; and she had been thor- 
oughly alarmed. She had moments of unwill- 
ing examination of conscience, when she 
suspected herself of having been “found want- 
ing.” This woman who had lived with her in 
the intimate intercourse of daily life, who had 


264 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


attended to her comfort as neither of her own 
daughters had ever done, who had sustained 
the little harmonies of existence so admirably 
with her, had all the time been passing through 
— so the doctor assured her — a nerve-shatter- 
ing psychological crisis which had threatened 
her very life, and she, Susan Beaufoy — had 
been unaware of it. She had never dreamed 
of pitying Evodia for the sudden rupture of 
her engagement. How could she do so when 
all the time she had in her heart of hearts be- 
lieved her to be lacking in feeling, and also 
imbued with a worldliness that was positively 
repulsive in so young a girl? Yet — was it her 
fault — had she been really to blame? It was 
true that she had never sought to win her con- 
fidence, had even dreaded that there might be 
a scene — she detested scenes, they were so dis- 
turbing, so emotional. For that reason she had 
never dared offer sympathy to the silent, 
sphinx-woman, who had seemed quite tranquil 
and cheerful since the day of Felix’s abrupt 
disappearance into the unknown. So if there 
was a barrier between them it was certainly 
of Evodia’s own making. She had never com- 
plained of feeling ill. Always she had been 
suave, composed, impersonal. She rarely spoke 
of herself, and, unlike her cousins, she was not 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


265 


given to talking over her own affairs; she 
showed no disposition for intimate self -revela- 
tions. There had been as little clue to the state 
of her health as there had been to the state of 
her mind. And now she had suddenly, with- 
out warning, collapsed; she had been dragged 
back from the very door of death with evident 
reluctance. Lady Beaufoy always shivered 
when her meditation reached this very uncom- 
fortable point. These silent, reticent persons 
were extraordinarily difficult to deal with! 
Milly and Sophy, with all their faults, had 
been perfectly frank with her; everything had 
been talked over and discussed from every im- 
aginable point of view, until it had lost every 
vestige of its true proportion, and she had lis- 
tened and discussed, too, more like an elder 
sister than a mother. 

After one of these harassing interviews with 
the doctor — who invariably contrived to make 
her feel as if she had been throughout, not 
only in the wrong, but abnormally blind to 
quite obvious symptoms, to things that were 
actually happening under her very nose, to 
use a vulgar expression — she went quietly into 
Evodia’s room. The girl had been ill now 
for rather more than a week, and she was still 


266 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


in bed, not only because her body sorely needed 
rest, but also because the wound had not quite 
healed where her head had been cut. The 
room was bare and spacious, and flooded with 
sunshine. The casement windows were wide 
open, displaying a fine expanse of sky and sea 
freshly blue. Groves of pine and ilex and 
olive lifted contrasting foliage of velvet dark- 
ness and silver pallor against that warm, rich 
blueness. There were some late roses hanging 
their golden heads outside the window, and 
their fragrance mingled agreeably with the 
delicious salt freshness of the sea wind. Upon 
a grove of palms the sun shone with an argent 
brilliance; the faint rustle of their fronds could 
be heard. 

Evodia lay very still ; her face was extremely 
pale, and with her eyes closed she looked al- 
most as if she were dead. Since her illness 
she had become very emaciated, and there was 
a look of that passive resignation which had 
distinguished her broken-hearted mother. 
The frozen marble immobility of her features 
gave Lady Beaufoy a renewed shock as she 
approached her. She felt quite relieved when 
Evodia opened her eyes and smiled in a way 
that, viewed across her recent experience, 
seemed to Lady Beaufoy both desperate and 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


267 


tragic. The dark, velvet-brown eyes were 
strangely sorrowful, and there were new and 
heavy shadows under them. She looked as 
if she had been confronted suddenly with a 
vision, and that not an agreeable one. It 
seemed as if all the youth had gone out of her 
face, leaving only the vague reflection of those 
emotions she had tried so assiduously to hide. 

Until now she had had no conversation with 
her, except each day she had come to ask her 
how she felt and if she had slept well. Any- 
thing further had been strictly forbidden by 
the doctor, but to-day, she had been given per- 
mission to talk to her for a little while. Lady 
Beaufoy was quite nervous at the prospect; 
she was never at ease with sick people; they 
induced in her a kind of constraint which is 
really not uncommon among healthy and nor- 
mal persons. 

“Aunt Susan — ” The voice from the bed 
was very w r eak and emotionless ; it belonged to 
the mask. 

“My dear — I hope you are feeling better 
this morning!” 

Lady Beaufoy came nearer with a sweep of 
rustling skirts. 

“The doctor thinks I am much better,” was 
the noncommittal reply. 


268 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“You have had quite a long illness,” said 
Susan Beaufoy; “that wound in your head 
has been most tiresome. I hope the hair will 
grow again — it is so annoying to have a bald 
patch which you have always to remember to 
hide!” 

She had never meant to talk about bald 
patches, but it had the effect of making Evodia 
smile. 

“Indeed, I hope I shall not have a bald 
patch!” she said. 

“Does it hurt you still?” inquired her aunt. 

“Not now, thank you,” said Evodia. “I 
suppose I must have knocked it — against 
something. I have been trying to remember, 
but I can’t remember anything about it. Did 
I say anything when I first woke up?” 

“We none of us know how it happened,” 
said Lady Beaufoy, “but we think you fainted 
and fell, and that you knocked your head 
against the table. I hope the doctor will let 
you get up soon. It is so very weakening to 
lie in bed so long! I am sure, if you could get 
out on the terrace, this beautiful air would do 
you all the good in the world! Foreigners, 
however clever and enlightened they may be, 
never understand the value of fresh air as we 
do!” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


269 


“He won’t let me get up yet,” said Evodia; 
“he calls this a rest cure. I am very sorry to 
give you so much trouble — I have hardly ever 
been ill in my life. It is a bother to lie here 
and be massaged, and drink so much milk. I 
hope you will go out just as usual and see your 
friends. Aunt Susan — it must be so terribly 
dull for you! You have been so good — about 
not leaving me — I am sure you must want 
some — relaxation.” She spoke in broken, de- 
tached sentences, as if it were a great effort 
to her; the weak, weary voice sounded rather 
pitiful. 

“You were not well enough to be left,” re- 
plied Lady Beaufoy rather briskly. “I hope 
you did not feel this illness coming on?” She 
looked anxiously at Evodia. “I always rely 
on you to tell me if you are not feeling well, 
or if you are getting tired — or out of sorts. 
Milly and Sophy were always so very sorry 
for themselves if they had only a slight cold 
in the head! But we seemed to spend the 
summer quietly enough, did not we?” A dis- 
turbing thought occurred to her that even now 
this exterior tranquillity was the old mask that 
would never, never be lifted in her presence. 
She remembered hearing a story of a Jap- 
anese servant, who, in his master’s presence, 


270 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


was always smiling and happy and youthful- 
looking. One day he saw him through a win- 
dow, when he was quite alone and did not 
know that he was being observed, and the face 
was old and worn and sad, and almost unrec- 
ognizable. That was the real man, but eti- 
quette demanded that he should wear, always 
in his master’s presence, the mask of happi- 
ness, giving no sign of sorrow. 

“Behind no prison grate, she said, 

Which slurs the sunshine half a mile. 

Lie captives so uncomforted 
As souls behind a smile. 

God’s pity, let us pray, she said.” 

“For just a few days I had been feeling — 
a little tired,” said Evodia ; “nothing to speak 
of. It was the journey perhaps — I have never 
been very good at journeys!” 

“You asked me just now if you had said 
anything when you woke up. I could not 
quite catch — you spoke so quickly; you were 
not quite yourself, you know! But I thought 
I heard you say something about a Cardinal. 
It was absurd, of course, for I don’t suppose 
you have ever known one! Something about 
forgiveness — and a Cardinal.” 

“I suppose I must have been thinking of 
the one in the Duomo,” said Evodia; “the one 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


271 


who kneels there in marble, and the Italians 
say he has never had absolution. The Prin- 
cess told me about him, and I remember think- 
ing it was an absurd story!” 

Lady Beaufoy knew that this was all the 
information she was likely to acquire from 
Evodia. She did long inconsequently at that 
moment to drag away the barrier — to tear the 
mask of polite happiness from her niece’s face 
and compel her to fling reserve to the winds. 
She wished to attack the very stronghold of that 
soul — so solitary, so abidingly silent, and cry 
out : “Why on earth did not you tell me that 
you were breaking your heart about Felix?” 

She gave a little gasp of relief when the 
momentary impulse had passed, that she had 
not yielded to it. It would have been a terri- 
ble mistake. She knew enough of pathology 
to know that this time of all others was not the 
right one to suggest any possible cause of this 
sudden illness. Any allusion to Felix might 
even at this juncture produce a very dangerous 
relapse. Yet — how near she had been! The 
words had actually trembled on her lips ; they 
seemed to ring in her ears now almost as if she 
had actually spoken them! What a sudden, 
mad impulse! She regarded her niece un- 
easily, as if she feared some subtle thought- 


272 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


transference had informed Evodia of her un- 
uttered cry. 

“My dear — you should have told me! I 
feel as if I had been neglectful — your doctor 
almost accused me of neglect to my face!” 

She hated this game of pretense, and yet she 
was dimly aware that only thus could Evodia 
shield her heart with iron armor which no pain 
or thrust could pierce through. She had set 
about conquering her grief in her own way. 
It would be cruel to frustrate her! 

“He is absurd,” said Evodia, “he thinks all 
women are suffering from nerves. It seems 
he is a specialist for nerves. Milk and mas- 
sage — I suppose we must let him have his own 
way for a little while, only it is so dull for you.” 
She put out a thin hand and touched her aunt’s 
with something like gratitude; never before 
had she appeared to her so kind, so friendly, 
so concerned. Lady Beaufoy, who was not 
particularly demonstrative, was yet pleased at 
this little sign of affection on the part of her 
niece. 


CHAPTER V 


T he doctor’s treatment was, however, not 
unavailing. Evodia made progress, not 
very rapid nor very marked, but it was in the 
right direction. One could scarcely expect 
more, the doctor said. He was curiously pes- 
simistic about her in his interviews with Lady 
Beaufoy. Hearing her mention the Prin- 
cess’s name one day he turned and said to her 
abruptly : 

“You know the Princess Aloisia? If so, 
pray invite her to come and see your niece. 
Her tranquil and normal influence — ” 

Lady Beaufoy laughed in spite of herself. 
“You said she was not to see visitors. I 
have always wanted her to see the Princess. 
She was inclined to like her.” 

“I did not know that you were acquainted 
with her. She goes nowhere except among 
the poorest and most forlorn people in Genoa. 
She leads the life of a nun — of a sister of char- 
ity. People blame her for living so much 
alone — often they do not know how full her 
hands are. That is a woman who is a saint, 
m 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


274 * 

madame — worthy to take her place beside St. 
Catherine of Genoa, whom she so greatly re- 
sembles!” 

“I will write and ask her to come — if my 
niece does not object; she dislikes seeing peo- 
ple,” said Lady Beaufoy. “Perhaps she will 
come to-morrow afternoon and sit with her on 
the terrace. I am so glad you are allowing 
her to go out at last — I am sure the fresh air 
will be beneficial.” 

“Ah, you English!” he said, laughing, and 
rubbing his hands, “with your mania for fresh 
air and cold water! No matter if the air is 
so black with fog that you cannot breathe in 
it and it chokes you, filling your lungs with 
poisonous gases — still you must have all the 
windows open to admit it!” 

He was gone with the swiftness of an ar- 
row, leaving her to ponder upon his eager 
words. Lady Beaufoy began to feel quite 
helpless between these two. They baffled her. 
She had never before realized her own craving 
for, and appreciation of, the purely normal. 
“If Axel were only here — I think I should en- 
joy his sense of humor,” she thought; “he 
would be able to show me how ridiculous it is 
of this little man to take such an absurd view 
of Evodia’s condition!” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


275 


But Axel had returned quite recently to 
town, having left a stone and a half at Hom- 
burg. She had heard from him trium- 
phantly announcing this fact only that morn- 
ing. He had gone for a few weeks to Monte 
Carlo, where he had more than paid for the 
expenses of his trip as well as for all the new 
hats and frocks Sophy had insisted upon buy- 
ing in Paris. The letter had cheered her, and 
she had smiled over his ingenuous revelations. 
“You have no idea, dear belle-mere , how 
greatly my figure has improved — even Sophy 
is obliged to admit it. We think that Milly 
will be quite unbearable if this new addition 
to the Bryden family should prove another 
boy!” 

It had taken her back to the light and frivo- 
lous atmosphere to which she had been accus- 
tomed, and in which alone she could breathe 
freely. She had been living in a quite un- 
natural atmosphere, she felt, ever since that 
disastrous evening when Sir Henry’s letter had 
come to inform her of the terrible behavior 
of Felix Scaife. Everything unfortunate 
seemed to date from that untoward lapse from 
the normal on the part of Evodia’s fiance . He 
was, indeed, in the highest degree culpable, 
and but for his conduct, so entirely inexcusa- 


276 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


ble, Evodia might by this time have been a 
most happy wife. Lady Beaufoy began to 
feel that people did not exaggerate when they 
inveighed against the unscrupulous influence 
of Romish priests. Even a sensible, well- 
brought-up young man like Felix had fallen 
immediately into the nets so skilfully out- 
spread to receive him, and this despite the ex- 
cellent influence which had surrounded him 
from his earliest years. Thinking thus, with 
a great deal of bitterness she sat down and 
wrote a little note to the Princess, begging her 
to come and see her niece on the following 
afternoon. 

It happened that Princess Aloisia was quite 
prepared for the summons; she had already 
received a visit from her little friend the doc- 
tor on his way back to Genoa. He had put 
as much of the situation before her as was pos- 
sible for him, without breach of professional 
confidence, and begged her to do what she 
could. “Try and force her confidence,” he 
said, “she is frozen — like all English people 
who are afraid to show any feeling further 
than the end of their nose — and you must try 
and melt her ! It is a case where all my phar- 
macopoeia is of no avail. I have done what 
I could for the body that has been treated with 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 277 

the harshness I might have expected from a 
devout person like yourself, madame — it is 
your turn now to attack the heart — the mind 
- — the soul! It is a work of charity — I con- 
fide it to you without fear!” 

“But I have never forced any one’s confi- 
dence in my life!” she objected; “if she talks 
to me, well and good!” 

“She will talk to you, madame,” he said re- 
assuringly. 

Evodia sat on the terrace under the shade of 
a grove of stone-pines and cypresses that lifted 
their dark shapes against the fresh bright blue 
of the sky. It was quite close to the edge of 
the cliff, and, by stooping forward a little, she 
could see the waves below embracing the black 
slabs of rock with their white frills of lace- 
like foam. Here and there a little plateau 
jutted out from the cliff, showing its green 
carpet of grass, dotted with the rose-red stars 
of the wild pinks, among which the yellow bees 
buzzed softly. The sea was perfectly calm 
— it was one of those October days when sum- 
mer seems still reluctant to leave Italy, even 
though November is close at hand. The noon- 
day sun was really hot, and the sea looked quite 
flat and blue like a lake. The great gray 


278 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


cliffs protected a beautiful coast-line, and to 
the left could be seen a little promontory where 
the tr e-cento Benedictine church, built right 
upon the rocks, lifted a striped black and 
white spire against the green of the hill be- 
yond. The cream-colored monastery behind 
the church was approached by an avenue of 
sharply pointed black cypress trees. And far 
off, looming like a pale shadow, amethyst-col- 
ored, the lovely shape of Porto Fino was out- 
lined against the sky, its long arm thrust far 
into that enchanting sea. To the right were 
vineyards, the vines trailing over great stone 
pergolas, showing here and there a flash of 
scarlet and gold. A grove of olives showed 
distorted trunks, gnarled and ancient, for here 
they felt the full force of those wild tempests 
that beat in autumn and winter along that fair 
coast. To-day their leaves in the sunshine 
seemed to be fashioned of hard, polished silver. 
Every space of ground was cultivated; there 
were vines and olives, mulberries, fig-trees, and 
maize. Just below the place where Evodia 
was sitting there could be seen a great cream- 
colored rambling fort, of which the walls went 
down almost to the sea, upright and impregna- 
ble. The dark little slits of windows gave it 
the appearance of a medieval fortress. The 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


279 


bugles at regular intervals flung out their shrill 
peremptory commands. Further away was a 
bathing station and a little restaurant. Evodia 
could see two small boys bathing. They were 
so darkly browned they looked like little 
Arabs, and their slim arms and legs seemed 
capable of performing every kind of swim- 
ming feat; they dived and floated, chased each 
other through the warm, blue water, and 
splashed each other with rapturous enjoyment. 

A book lay open on Evodia’s knee, but she 
was not reading it. This afternoon she was 
expecting the Princess’s visit, and while wait- 
ing for her she found sufficient amusement in 
watching the panorama outspread before her. 
The soft, fragrant air, the gentle wind from 
the sea revived her. She liked looking at that 
blue scene; the gay shouts of the children, the 
abrupt sounds of the bugles flung across the 
silence, filled her attention. She did not even 
hear the sound of approaching feet. The sun 
for her had a healing warmth; she told her- 
self that she never wished to see London again. 
When she thought of Mollingmere a great 
lump came into her throat, a pain gripped 
her heart. Was it not looking fair and beau- 
tiful now with the beech-woods painted in their 
autumn bravery of yellow and gold? 


280 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


From this painful dream Lady Beaufoy’s 
voice aroused her. 

“Evodia — Evodia 1” 

She turned her head and saw two figures 
approaching — her aunt and the Princess 
Aloisia, who was dressed from head to foot in 
black. Her beautiful hair showed in delicate 
contrast of silver against this sable setting. 

“Do not get up, please,” she said; “I am so 
sorry to hear you have been ill.” She took 
Evodia’s hand and wondered what manner of 
illness this had been to paint such gray shadows 
under the wistful young eyes and shapen the 
delicate line from ear to chin. 

She herself had learned to endure her own 
sorrow without interior rebellion. In her face 
there was no sign of the difficult mutiny of the 
soul. She was so beautiful that Evodia 
thought she might have strayed from one of 
the pictures in the marble gallery of some 
Renaissance palace, bewildered and amazed to 
find the modern world at once so complex and 
so evil, and so full, too, of disturbances and un- 
rest beneath its smiling aspect of prosperity 
and civilization. And on her side the Princess 
was aware that this young soul was struggling 
with the sharpness of a great grief — that under 
the quiet and reserve there were mutiny and 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


281 


bitter rebellion. #The Princess remembered the 
words of Pere Grou — that the worst part of 
our trials lies in the mutiny of the soul against 
them. “She will speak to me,” she thought to 
herself, for she had listened to many histories 
and knew many secrets. 

Lady Beaufoy departed, leaving them to- 
gether. For some minutes they sat in silence 
watching the silken expanse of sea; the pines 
murmured a faint whispering chorus above 
their heads. At last the Princess said : 

“I heard from my friend Comtesse de 
Clairville to-day. She wrote from Arles, 
where they live. It seems they are going 
South this winter, as the little girl is rather 
delicate and has a cough. They are to visit 
a property which M. de Clairville has lately 
inherited from a cousin in Algeria. Of course 
Isidoro is wild to join them! It seems there 
are beasts to kill!” She laughed. “But this 
time, as it is in what he calls civilization, he de- 
mands that I should accompany him.” 

“And shall you go?” asked Evodia. 

“It is always difficult for me to leave Genoa 
— I have so much work to do here — so many 
poor and sick people to look after. But Nico- 
lette is so very anxious that I should be one 
of the party ; she says they cannot possibly fill 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


all the rooms of the great Moorish villa which 
M. Gaspard built there. It has a pretty name 
— the Villa Saida — that is an Arab word mean- 
ing happy. By the way, it has a sad story, for 
M. Gaspard built it for his bride, and he died 
a few weeks before the wedding was to take 
place. She has gone, poor girl, to be a White 
Sister, and lives now in the desert, in some 
far-off oasis. He died about two years ago, 
leaving this property to his cousin Pierre, 
Nicolette’s husband.” 

“It sounds an enchanting prospect if you 
can spare the time to go,” said Evodia. Villa 
Saida — the very name had a caressing sound. 

The Princess had already made up her mind 
that if she went to Algeria she should try and 
induce Evodia to accompany her. Nicolette 
had declared that she would be bored to death 
there if she had to go with only her own family. 
She wished to make up a large party, or she 
knew that she would not be able to endure it 
for a week. It would be quite simple for the 
Princess to suggest bringing her friend with 
her. But there was much to be done before 
she could venture to reveal this plan to her. 
Still the plunge must be taken. And quite 
unexpectedly Evodia came to her assistance. 

“Do you remember her telling us that story 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


283 


of the Scaifes?” she said suddenly. “The 
story of the man who was ruined — disinherited 
— and whose fiancee broke off her engage- 
ment?” 

The Princess touched the thin transparent- 
looking hand that lay so inert upon the silken 
rug, and said quietly: 

“Are you going to tell me that you are the 
girl — the one we dared to blame? But you 
must forgive us. Nicolette did not know all 
the story. She could only judge from the 
gossip she heard.” 

“It is quite true,” said Evodia. Her face 
was white and reckless. “It all happened just 
as she said. You blamed her for refusing to 
marry a man who was poor. But it wasn’t so 
bad as that. I gave him up because he had 
put a whole world between us. He didn’t 
seem to belong to me any more. He was like 
another man with different ideals. But I — 
am punished too.” 

The Princess said: “My dear, you must 
forgive me — you may call me a prying old 
woman if you like — but I am at least a very 
safe person to confide in. I don’t want to 
force your confidence — but I should be glad to 
help you if I could. You are in great grief, 
I am sure. If it is irremediable we must leave 


284 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


it confidently in the hands of God. If it is 
remediable we must hope and pray. But in 
any case we must endure with what courage we 
can!” 

Her soft tones were very soothing to this 
troubled and weary spirit who had flown so 
close to the gates of death — had bruised and 
beaten her wings against them, longing pas- 
sionately for release. 

Evodia turned her head away; she did not 
wish the Princess to see the tears in her eyes. 
Was she going to break down here, after all 
her long months of silence ? 

Then she turned and looked at her and saw 
only compassion and a pitying tenderness in 
that beautiful serene face. 

“I cannot pray,” said Evodia, “I dare not 
hope — it is irremediable. And it is so lonely 
now. We were within a few weeks of being 
married. Sometimes I want to see him so 
much — and yet if he were to come I think I 
should refuse to see him. It will always be 
like this, and I am learning to dread the future. 
One can bear it so well for one day — for a few 
days — but not for many days — for all the 
days!” 

Her voice was now cold and emotionless; 
she spoke rapidly as if impelled by the force. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


285 


now released, which she had restrained and si- 
lenced for so long. She had bared her heart at 
a word to this sad woman with the grave, 
patient eyes. 

“He became a Catholic, did he not?” said 
the Princess. “You must pardon me — I am 
a Catholic, and I have lived always in a Cath- 
olic country. If I have given nothing else to 
Isidoro I have given him the Faith through 
the mercy of God. And I think I could bear 
anything in the world that could happen to 
him except that he should lose this grace. So 
it is not easy for me to see your point of view. 
It is true, I believe, that many people in Eng- 
land are very prejudiced against our Holy 
Church. I have only once been in London, 
and that was many years ago, but I was struck 
with the churches there and with the devotion 
of those who still clung across centuries of per- 
secution to the Faith.” 

Evodia struck in sharply: “Here one meets 
it at every turn. The pictures in the galleries 
— the shrines in the streets — the Ave Maria 
bells — and the innumerable churches. I think 
I am getting to fear it more and more! It 
caught Felix in a net — he can never escape — 
he will cling to it till he dies — he would have 
given his heart’s blood in return for it! He 


28 6 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


was possessed by it — you could not imagine 
any one could change so much in so short a 
time. He will never give it up !” 

“Indeed I pray he may not,” said the Prin- 
cess, devoutly. 

She looked into Evodia’s eyes. “And I 
shall pray, too, that you may also receive this 
grace,” she added quietly. “Do you think I 
myself could have endured — and been happy, 
too, all these years — without those things so 
precious to enfold me?” In a far-off dream of 
the future she seemed to see Evodia a devout 
Catholic — a happy wife — perhaps a mother, 
sharing exile and poverty with Felix who had 
been so prodigal of sacrifice and relinquish- 
ment — this Felix, outcast of fortune and hap- 
piness, who yet was still rich in the possession 
of the one thing supremely needful. 

“He must be very sad,” said the Princess. 

“Sad? It is his own doing!” 

“Sad because he has lost so many possessions 
and the prospect of much human happiness. 
He has forfeited his home — his heritage — his 
grandfather’s affection — and lastly his bride. 
It is a great deal to lose, and he must have the 
most perfect — the most abundant faith to have 
accepted these losses so simply. He must 
have foreseen the sacrifices he would be called 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


287 


upon to make, knowing his grandfather’s 
prejudices — even if he still hoped and believed 
that you w T ould not change.” 

“I did not change,” said Evodia, abruptly; 
“it was Felix who changed so much — he seemed 
quite different.” She felt now a sudden 
strong wish to confide the whole story to this 
delicate-looking, solitary woman who had al- 
ready so greatly gained her affection. 

In her hurt pride she added: “Oh, I do not 
say that he did not care for me — but he was 
altered! I did not seem to be any longer the 
first thing! He would have set me on one 
side for this new craze — and he certainly let 
it come between us. He permitted it to ruin 
his worldly prospects — to postpone our mar- 
riage. Oh, you cannot imagine how he had 
changed !” 

“Yes — I can well imagine it,” said the 
Princess, very gently; “it does change the soul 
so completely. One sees that sometimes in 
converts; it is something which we who have 
always been brought up in the Faith have 
never experienced. I have sometimes felt 
that I could envy them that experience — that 
new birth!” She spoke more to herself than 
to Evodia. “You know my own story — how 
my husband was drowned.” She looked out 


288 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


at the wide blue sky and the wide blue sea 
that lay in treacherous calm loveliness beneath 
it. “He was washed up on those rocks after 
three days of suspense.” The tragedy that 
was always with her gave her eyes a look as 
of unshed tears. “There was only one sur- 
vivor — he told me that my husband could have 
been saved so easily but he gave his life to try 
and rescue one of the crew. Isidoro is very 
like him — he looks at me with his eyes — speaks 
with his voice — ” She paused and then asked: 
“Where is your Felix now?” 

“I do not know. I never have any news of 
him. But some one said he had gone abroad. 
Axel Maltravers — my cousin Sophy’s husband 
— told Aunt Susan. Axel is a gossip, he 
hears everything. Felix and I had only 
known each other a short time, and I had not 
met many of his friends. He had not a great 
many — he lived such a secluded life with old 
Sir Henry at Mollingmere. We were not en- 
gaged long — only a few weeks — it seems now 
almost like a dream !” 

“And you did not see this other Mrs. Scaife 
when she was in Genoa?” 

“I did see her once — with her husband — 
F elix’s brother whom I had never met. They 
were in the Duomo — the day we went there, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


289 


and you told me the story of the Cardinal 
who kneels there. I did not dare go up and 
speak to them; I thought Keith had every 
right to be angry with me — he is fond of Felix 
and he must think I have treated him badly.” 

“And your aunt — you do not talk to her 
about it?” 

“Oh, never!” said Evodia, “that would be 
impossible.” 

“That seems strange to me since you live 
together.” 

“I have lived with her two or three years 
only — since my mother died. Before then we 
were almost strangers. I had hardly seen her 
or my two cousins. I had lived always quite 
alone with my mother, who was an invalid, 
and the doctor forbade me to speak to her of 
anything that might worry her. So — I 
formed the habit of silence — of never talking 
over things or confiding in people. I was hor- 
rified at first to hear the open, unreserved 
manner in which my cousins discussed every 
little thing that happened. They talked and 
talked — till the most trivial thing seemed to 
grow into a mountain. Nothing seemed 
sacred or private or safe with them — they dis- 
cussed their husbands, their babies, their serv- 
ants, their money and friends and enemies. 


290 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


That is why I have never been able to become 
intimate with them. Please do not think I 
am not very fond of Aunt Susan — she has 
always been most kind to me. I don’t think 
she wanted to be my guardian, but she never 
showed it in any way. But I can’t tell her 
things because I should be so afraid that she 
would repeat it to Milly and Sophy. So I 
have never mentioned Felix since the day he 
went away — the day I broke it off.” Tears 
came into her eyes ; she brushed them half im- 
patiently away. “I felt it would break my 
heart to speak of him. Milly and Sophy 
would have told every one if it had happened 
to them — what he had said, what they had 
said, and what Sir Henry had said and done. 
So you see I had to be silent — and then the 
silence itself began to hurt. I do not know 
why I have told you.” 

“There is freemasonry among the outcasts 
of human happiness,” said the Princess. “But 
I wish you could have that joy and comfort 
which I myself have. Will you not tell me 
how it came about that he became a Catholic 
so suddenly?” 

“I was staying at Mollingmere just after 
our engagement was announced,” said Evodia, 
“and we were walking in the garden one even- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 291 

in g. I had a kind of presentiment — it seemed 
to me as if something was approaching on 
very swift feet to interfere with our perfect 
happiness. And Felix said that we had only 
six weeks to wait — what could happen in so 
short a time ? When I had gone in, a 
Franciscan friar came and begged for a 
night’s lodging. Sir Henry was very furious 
when he heard that Felix had let him stay, 
but in the end he did not turn him out as he 
had threatened to do. Well, that night the 
priest was taken very ill — he had heart disease 
and Felix had to sit up with him, and the next 
day he took him back to Cossoway. Although 
I was staying at Mollingmere he did not re- 
turn for some days. Well, I cannot tell you 
much of what happened at the monastery, for 
Felix told me very few details except that the 
man died, and Felix stayed with him until 
he died, and then he made up his mind to be 
a Catholic. He said he tried to resist it. For 
a little while he gave it up, more or less. Then 
he went down to Somersetshire; he never told 
me a word of what was passing in his mind, 
he never told any one ; he hardly wrote to me. 
Then one night he came to see me and told me 
he had been received into the Catholic Church, 
and that he had been home to tell Sir Henry. 


292 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


There was a frightful scene, and he said he 
could never go back — that he was a beggar. I 
don’t think he loved me less — but he did not 
seem to think of me at all. He seemed so 
reckless — so uncaring. His whole mind was 
absorbed with this new thing. It made me 
frightened. I began to see that he was very- 
impulsive. For instance, he told me once that 
he fell in love with me the moment he first 
heard me sing. He said to himself : That is 
a beautiful woman and she sings beautifully; 
she shall be my wife. Just like that — he made 
up his mind. And then in a few weeks I was 
set aside — almost forgotten for this ...” 

The Princess said: “Didn’t you ever think 
how conversion came to St. Paul? One mo- 
ment, and he fell down blind and submissive 
— a child in the hands of His Lord who had 
spoken to him with such passionate appeal. 
It is not like an ordinary change — the infusion 
of grace sweeps a man into a swift current, 
irresistible, overwhelming. All Thy Waters 
have gone over me. You should have had a 
little patience to get to know this new Felix, 
who was a thousand times more worthy of 
a good woman’s love than he had ever been 
before.” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


293 


She thought to herself: “I only wish I 
could show her how right he was!” 

“So I broke it off,” said Evodia; “and I 
let people think I was just worldly. He 
cannot have suffered more than I have!” 

“And he has sources of consolation which 
you have not. If he has lost a great deal he 
has also gained immeasurably. One cannot 
expect to have the most precious things life 
can offer without making a corresponding 
sacrifice. And for this the martyrs gave their 
hearts’ blood.” 

Evodia shivered. “Felix was like that — he 
would have given his heart’s blood. It seemed 
to me emotional, unmanly. I could not fol- 
low him into those spheres of ecstasy !” 

She had explained the whole story as ac- 
curately as she could. And the one thing 
she had left unspoken — the fact of her great 
and undiminished love for Felix — was already 
accepted as a logical inference by her friend. 
The Princess recognized the heart rendered 
sick unto death by sorrow; the day had not 
yet come when Time would distribute from 
his wallet “alms for oblivion” To some in- 
deed he is forever denied the opportunity by 
that greater giver of the waters of Lethe — 


294 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


the angel Azrael, whose wings had come so 
near to touching Evodia. 

She rose. “I must not stay and tire you 
any more,” she said; “but in a few days 
when you are better, and if you think you can 
leave Lady Beaufoy, I want you to come and 
stay with me for a week. The change of scene 
and people will do you good.” 

She bent down and kissed Evodia. After 
all the task imposed upon her by the eager 
little doctor had been a comparatively easy 
one. 


CHAPTER VI 

O ne evening Evodia had been for a walk 
with the Princess. She had begun to re- 
cover her strength, and they used to stroll 
together almost daily through the innumer- 
able lanes that ran like arteries from the main 
road of Albaro. 

Turning suddenly to the left they went 
down a short, flagged pathway, past a little 
grove of vines and mulberry trees; beyond 
stood a building with a little chapel. 

“I am going to hear Benediction at the con- 
vent,” said the Princess. “Would you care 
to come?” 

“I will come,” said Evodia, “but I — I am 
very ignorant — I shall not know what to do.” 

“Oh, you’ve only got to kneel down unless 
you are tired,” said her companion. She had 
rather expected a point-blank refusal. 

“I don’t believe — as you do,” she said, 
lamely; “perhaps you would rather I stayed 
outside?” 


295 


296 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“Oh, no, do come in. How can you be- 
lieve, if you are — as you say — ignorant?” 

Evodia followed her into the dimly lighted 
chapel. From behind a grille the nuns were 
singing with a strange sweetness. The peace 
of the place insensibly communicated itself to 
Evodia. There was a strong odor of in- 
cense. There were a good many people kneel- 
ing by the benches. Evodia glanced quietly 
round. A little shabby Italian girl was kneel- 
ing beside her; she had a thin black lace veil 
tied over her head. When the rosary was 
said, the Princess and this little girl both re- 
cited the prayers aloud. Sancta Maria , Mater 
Dei , ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc et in bora 
mortis nostrce . . . . 

As they knelt there Evodia became sensible 
of the great gold Monstrance with its Treas- 
ure not of earth, surrounded by a blaze of 
candles. She saw the thin silver clouds of in- 
cense ascending towards that throne above the 
Tabernacle. The priest who knelt in the 
sanctuary wore a rich vestment; he recited 
the prayers alternately with the congregation. 

The little girl was not very recollected; she 
permitted her eyes to wander all over the 
chapel, yet her quick eager voice never omitted 
to recite the prayers. She seemed to do it 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 297 

almost mechanically. Once or twice she re- 
garded Evodia attentively, wondering perhaps 
why this lady had no rosary and did not join 
in the prayers. 

Evodia watched almost with a feeling of 
irritability the brown beads of the rosary slip- 
ping through the small careless fingers. Al- 
most she felt that the child’s presence irritated 
her. Her familiar knowledge of all that was 
passing, her perfunctory manner of praying 
as one long accustomed, made her feel keenly 
her own ignorance. Evodia felt that she her- 
self was outside; she had no part nor lot with 
her two companions. It made her realize 
bitterly the immensity of the gulf that had 
been formed between herself and Felix. Had 
he grown accustomed to it all — even as her 
two companions were accustomed? For he 
must now know all these things since they 
formed part of his faith. These soft and 
beautiful yet, to her, unintelligible prayers, 
which were familiar alike to princess and 
peasant, this chanting of exquisite music, must 
be now as familiar to him as to them. The 
fact disturbed her. When the rosary was 
finished, the hidden nuns chanted the Litany 
of Loreto. The Tantum Ergo followed. 
And afterwards Evodia saw her two com- 


£98 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


panions bow their heads low as the bell rang 
sharply, and the Benediction was given. 

A hush fell over the chapel and its wor- 
shipers. The little girl got up and, moved 
away, making a rapid yet reverent genuflex- 
ion towards the Altar, where now in the 
Tabernacle the Mystery of the Host lay con- 
cealed. 

She was plunged in reverie when the Prin- 
cess touched her lightly on the shoulder. 

“Are you ready to come?” she said. 

She had no idea that Evodia had never been 
to any service in a Catholic Church in her life 
before. Perhaps if she had known this she 
would have hesitated about asking her to come. 
But she felt a great wish to teach her a little 
of the beauty and holiness of the Church, and, 
if possible, to destroy some of the bitter prej- 
udices she had been taught to hold towards 
it. She felt a strong wish to pave the way to- 
wards a complete reconciliation between these 
two people who were evidently still deeply at- 
tached to each other. 

They walked home almost in silence. The 
Princess began to feel a little doubtful as to 
the success of her experiment. 

After she retired to her room that night 
she prayed for many hours for these two 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 299 

separated ones ; especially she prayed for 
Evodia. 

“She must come and stay with me,” she 
thought ; “like that she will learn a little.” 

“Maman — I am in love with that beautiful 
Miss Essex,” Isidoro assured her from time 
to time, “she is so lovely — so sympathetic!” 

“Nonsense, my son — she is not for thee!” 
was his mother’s invariable reply. 


CHAPTER VII 


H er tenancy of the little villa being now 
at an end, Lady Beaufoy resolved to 
leave Genoa and return to London. Several 
circumstances combined to make her carry 
out this project without delay, the principal 
one being that since the arrival of her new 
baby — a little daughter — Milly had not made 
a good recovery, she still continued very weak 
and ill, was unaccountably depressed, and 
James expressed much anxiety concerning her. 
Lady Beaufoy began to think that the finger 
of duty pointed Londonwards, and she was al- 
ready tired of Genoa. Evodia had received 
an urgent invitation to stay for some weeks 
longer at Albaro as the guest of the Princess, 
who had now definitely invited her to accom- 
pany her and her son to Algeria, when they 
went to visit the de Clairvilles. In all this 
Lady Beaufoy felt that Fate was acting in 
an unusually beneficent mood. Evodia need 
not return to England for quite a long time 

— and as she was to be continually thrown into 
300 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


301 


the society of the charming young Isidoro, 
there was no knowing what the future might 
hold for her. Having waited to see Evodia 
settled in the old villa, Lady Beaufoy set her 
face homewards, after bewildering Hortense 
with much advice and many injunctions to 
take the utmost care of her young mistress. 

Axel met her at Charing Cross on her re- 
turn home. He looked singularly youthful 
and babyish as he approached her with a guile- 
lessly innocent air. The day was foggy and 
the atmosphere threatened to choke Lady 
Beaufoy, who was already beginning to re- 
gret the more suave climate of the South. 
Still there was Milly to be considered — it 
would be a thousand pities if she began to de- 
velop nerves at her age just for the want of 
a little maternal care! 

“Sophy couldn’t come,” he apologized; “she 
has a cold. And the fog — ” He waved his 
hand comprehensively, and seemed thus to in- 
clude the passengers, the porters, the luggage 
and the station generally, among the un- 
savory climatic conditions. 

“Yes — the fog,” acquiesced Lady Beaufoy; 
“so different from Italy. I am sorry that 
Sophy has a cold. What news is there of 
Milly?” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


302 

“ I telephoned to Jim to-day — he wasn’t 
communicative. But Sophy has seen her and 
says she looks better.” 

“I hurried home — Jim’s letters made me feel 
anxious,” she explained. 

“The baby is just like Jim,” said Axel, “and 
I hear they are both delighted. Still Milly 
has been very bad, though she is picking up 
now. She thought she was going to die, and 
Jim thought she was going to die, and Sophy 
was dreadfully gloomy about it too. I assure 
you I went through a great deal!” 

They were now speeding through the fog- 
laden and silent streets in Lady Beaufoy’s 
luxurious electric brougham. She wondered 
how she could have endured such a prolonged 
parting from this admirably comfortable con- 
yeyance. Presently Axel said : 

“And the fair Evodia?” 

He pronounced her name diffidently as one 
who approaches warily a delicate topic. 

“Evodia is very well. I left her in Genoa 
where she is staying with my old friend — the 
Princess Aloisia.” 

“A romantic name,” interposed Axel. 

“Yes — and she is so romantic looking. 
Quite of the old world — though she is not old. 
She has taken a great fancy to Evodia, and 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


SOS 


she insisted upon her going there. I was of 
course only too delighted that she should have 
this distraction!” 

“Is she alone with her?” he inquired. 

“There is a — son,” said Lady Beaufoy, with 
some hesitation. She did ,not desire to have 
her fond hopes for the future published pre- 
maturely abroad. 

“Perfect!” cried Axel, rapturously. “He 
will eliminate doubtless the too alluring image 
of the pious Felix!” 

“I only wish he would!” sighed Lady Beau- 
foy, rubbing the window with the dark green 
strap as if to induce a little daylight to show 
through. “But I fear there is no hope of 
that. Still her singing seems to attract him, 
and he is certainly a very handsome boy — she 
seems quite happy there.” 

“In her usual composed, undemonstrative 
way?” he asked sagely. He was bursting to 
hear more and was sensible of her desire to 
keep things concealed from him. 

“Exactly,” said Lady Beaufoy. “Have 
you heard anything of Felix?” 

Axel lifted two plump white hands with a 
comic gesture of despair. 

“He has utterly and completely vanished,” 
he said, “and I hear Sir Henry is very ill and 


304 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


Keith is with him. You heard perhaps there 
is a baby now, the image of Genevieve? Sir 
Henry was quite annoyed because it does not 
resemble the haughty Scaifes! He called it 
a fluffy doll, and was angry because it was 
not a boy!” 

“But no news of Felix?” she asked again 
with some anxiety. 

“None at all. He was such a hermit you 
see. He belonged to two clubs, but he hardly 
ever set foot in either of them. He had very 
few friends and certainly no intimate ones. 
No one is interested in the poor devil now he 
has lost his fortune. I looked for him when 
I was last in Brighton — I expected to find 
him preaching on the beach! I wonder if he 
has become a monk? That would be an agree- 
able ending, and Evodia would be obliged to 
cease repining and marry — Aloisia’s son!” 

“Evodia has never openly repined,” said 
Lady Beaufoy, with some displeasure, as the 
brougham stopped in front of her house in 
Curzon Street. As she got out she glanced 
up at the windows with an almost affectionate 
air. Here at last were her own four walls — 
normal, comfortable walls. Across a blanket 
of woven fog and darkness the electric light 
could dimly be discerned in the hall. Axel 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


305 


sprang out with an assumption of great 
agility and said: “Welcome home, dear belle- 
mere! I will stay to tea. With admirable 
forethought I asked the cook to prepare some 
muffins. It will be quite like old times!” 

While Axel sat and consumed muffins, 
Lady Beaufoy ate and drank listlessly the dry 
toast and milkless tea which was all the re- 
freshment she permitted herself. 

He then returned nimbly to the conversa- 
tion interrupted by their arrival. 

“So you left Evodia permanently ensconced 
at the Princess Aloisia’s?” he said. 

“Not permanently, but for the present. 
She really had a very serious illness soon after 
we arrived in Genoa. The doctor couldn’t 
give it any definite name. She is very, very 
much changed,” she added rather impulsively. 
“Sometimes she seems to be almost — lifeless.” 

“She never could have cared for Felix,” 
said Axel. “It was the most cold-blooded 
thing I ever heard of. She deserved to be 
punished.” 

He went on eating in silence. Presently 
he said: “You must be glad to have got rid 
of her for a little. I suppose you have heard 
nothing of Herton?” 

“Nothing!” she said with decision. “And 


306 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


in * any case it would have been too soon. 
Girls take a little time to get over — such a 
disaster. Perhaps in the spring — when she 
comes back ...” 

“I am sure that her matrimonial future 
need not cause us any anxiety,” said Axel; 
‘‘but it was a pity that Felix was such a fairy 
prince. So handsome in the pale dark way 
that girls admire! It will be difficult for his 
successor!” 

“He will sit there eating until dinner time,” 
thought Lady Beaufoy, who was longing to 
go and rest a little after her fatiguing journey. 

Aloud she remarked: “Aloisia talked of 
wintering in Algeria with some French 
cousins of hers — the de Clairvilles. She wants 
Evodia to go too !” 

“You will be alone all the winter,” he said 
with some show of pleasure; “Sophy and I 
will come here a great deal to cheer you up !” 

“You must both come whenever you can,” 
she said; “but I am such a dull old woman 
now! I feel all this has aged me very much!” 

“Nonsense^ dear belle-mere! You look 
younger and handsomer than ever. Still I 
am sure you have had a most trying summer 
and autumn. However, there is no prospect 
of Evodia’s taking up again with this penni- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


307 


less fanatic, which is the only thing which 
ought to agitate you. He has disappeared 
as if he had never been, and we must pray 
that he will remain in this well-earned 
oblivion!” 

Bending down he kissed her lightly on the 
forehead and glided noiselessly away. 


CHAPTER VIII 


L ady Beaufoy had been back in Curzon 
Street less than a week — a gloomy, de- 
pressing week of fog and rain — when she re- 
ceived a visit from Lord Herton. 

Milly was still confined to the house; Axel 
and Sophy were away in the country for a 
shooting party; the weather had prevented 
Lady Beaufoy from going out, and she was 
already somewhat weary of her own society. 

The blinds were drawn, though it was not 
yet four o’clock, because the gray and yellow 
blanket of fog presented such a depressing out- 
look; a large fire blazed on the hearth, and 
sundry bowls of delicate china were filled ex- 
travagantly with long-stalked roses and im- 
mense bunches of Neapolitan violets. Upon 
hearing Lord Herton’s name announced she 
could not but feel that to a man who had spent 
so much time in exploring the uncivilized 
world, her pretty, luxurious room, rose-colored 
and rose-scented, must possess a certain 
charm. 


308 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


309 


Lord Herton was a tall, spare man, with 
rather a crooked mouth, a long nose, and keen 
eagle eyes of a cold steel-gray color. Many 
people were afraid of him. A fine head, with 
thick iron-gray hair, which made him look 
older than his forty years, a wide brow 
and a strong, obstinate chin, he was at once 
striking looking and yet almost repellently 
ugly. 

He was a man of shattered ideals, but of 
unimpaired optimism; thus he was at once 
profoundly gloomy and unnaturally hopeful. 
His expression was one of caustic, slightly 
contemptuous, benevolence. It was when he 
had just made up his mind to ask Evodia 
Essex to be his wife that Felix Scaife — a man 
he had never heard of, and had certainly never 
seen — stepped in and swiftly won the woman 
whom Herton secretly adored. It had not 
broken his heart, but he thought he should 
never forget the sudden, swift, chill sense of 
irreparable loss which had for many subse- 
quent days possessed him. 

She was, in his eyes, adorably beautiful, 
with a strange, alluring fascination; the sound 
of her singing thrilled him, for he had the 
artistic temperament beneath that harsh ex- 
terior. The cold, slow tones of her speaking 


310 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


voice, the brilliancy of her dark eyes, the touch 
of melancholy, combined to produce that 
charm in her which he could not analyze. 

Lady Beaufoy’s keen eyes had, at a very 
early period, discerned this disposition on the 
part of Herton to admire her niece. It will 
be remembered that she alluded to it on the 
night of the rupture with Felix. She made 
up her mind forthwith that when Evodia 
should have recovered from this desolating 
experience, her attention should be adroitly, 
if imperceptibly, directed towards Lord Her- 
ton. 

There was much to be said in favor of this 
scheme. The rupture was a definite one, with 
a definite cause — such a tragedy as a reconcilia- 
tion was quite out of the question. However 
much Evodia had cared, she must have suffered 
a certain bitterness of disillusionment. She 
must have felt something of the sharp pain of 
shame — a very severe discipline in youth; she 
knew, too, what this and that person had said. 
To any one so profoundly reticent, to be dis- 
cussed is, in itself, a deep measure of humilia- 
tion. She knew, too, that Felix had been de- 
scribed as weak, easily influenced, and so on. 
The idol had been, if not destroyed, at least 
very grossly disfigured. And regarding the 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


311 


permanence of such essential disillusionment, 
there could not be two opinions. It was im- 
possible to suppose that a girl so proud and 
reserved as Evodia would not in time accept 
consolation, and blot out the disaster by mak- 
ing a good marriage, should the opportunity 
present itself. 

Lord Herton had an abrupt manner, a habit 
of hurling himself, so to speak, at the point. 
So, after his first greeting, he said: 

“Has — Miss Essex come back with you?” 

“No — I left her at Albaro — just outside 
Genoa.” 

“How is she?” 

“She was not at all well in the autumn — 
when we first went to Genoa. I — felt anxious 
about her. But she is well now, and I have 
left her out there with my old friend, the 
Princess Aloisia.” 

“I used to know the Princess,” he said; 
“you mean the one whose husband was 
drowned?” 

“Yes,” she assented feebly. 

He waited a moment, and then said: 

“Has your niece got over it?” 

“Got over what?” She asked this question 
to gain time; his rapid methods bewildered 
her. 


812 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“The way that fool of a chap behaved to 
her!” said Herton, roughly. 

“You forget — she broke off the engagement 
herself,” said Lady Beaufoy. 

Herton gave a short, mirthless laugh. 

“Needs must,” he said bitterly; “she was in 
a pretty tight corner. But has she got over 
it? Is she fretting about it?” 

“I am not in the least in her confidence. 
She never mentioned the matter again. She is 
certainly thinner — but she did not appear to 
be exactly fretting.” 

“It’s absolutely at an end between them, I 
suppose?” he asked. 

“Absolutely. He is practically penniless!” 

“But that was not the reason,” he affirmed. 

“Of course she was very much upset at his 
action. It put him in a new light. I am 
sure he must have seemed weak and unreliable. 
Evodia must marry a man she can depend on 
— look up to — a strong character!” 

He was aware that this speech was sent to 
his address; he smiled. 

“Have I any chance?” he said with almost 
brutal frankness. 

“How can I possibly say? Your chance is 
as good as any one else’s. I wish,” she said, 
with a frankness that matched his own, “I 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 313 

wish you had asked her — before Felix came 
upon the scene!” 

“I wish I had,” he replied; “this kind of 
thing hurts one’s self-respect. Is she still 
thinking of Scaife?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I’ve half a mind to go and look her up,” he 
said. 

Lady Beaufoy regarded him intently. “I 
never used to think you were serious,” she 
said. 

“As a matter of fact, I’ve always been 
serious about this. But it didn’t seem fair. 
I’m twenty years older — a long gap. And 
she’d never seen any one or been about at all 
till she came to you. I thought I had better 
wait a little.” 

“I thought you only liked her singing,” 
she said lamely. 

“I couldn’t understand why Scaife didn’t 
marry her first — make sure of her, and then 
change his religion. How he dared run the 
risk of losing her! The maddest fool! Do 
you think she cared for him very much?” 

“I can’t say. She never talked about it. 
But almost from the first there were little 
things that seemed to spoil the harmony. He 
got under the influence of those Romish priests 


314 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


very soon after they were engaged. And after 
that I don’t think things were ever quite 
smooth. She didn’t guess anything, but she 
must have felt the presence — as we all did — 
of another influence — a hostile one. Even 
Axel, my son-in-low, suggested that there 
must be something of the kind.” 

“He hasn’t repented of his folly? He won’t 
give it up?” 

“I don’t think so. No one knows what has 
become of him. Some one suggested he was 
going to be a monk.” 

Herton laughed disagreeably. 

“I wish he would !” he said. “I wish with all 
my heart that he were safe in a Trappist 
prison.” 

“You need not be so afraid. I am sure 
Evodia will never see him again!” 

“The field is clear for me?” 

“I should say quite clear.” 

His face wore a look of youth. 

“Thank you,” he said; “I shall go soon. 
Perhaps I shall start to-morrow. I don’t 
dare let myself hope!” 

“I haven’t said anything to encourage you?” 
she said, somewhat dismayed by his sudden 
decision. 

“No — nothing definite.” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


315 


“I shall be very glad if you are successful,” 
she said. “But why don’t you write first?” 

“No — I won’t write. I shall plead my 
cause better face to face.” 

“Give her back her lost happiness,” said 
Lady Beaufoy with something of tenderness. 

“All of it — and more,” said Herton. 

He went away, quite forgetting to take any 
formal farewell of her. And once outside in 
the street he whistled softly, to the astonish- 
ment of the passers-by. Lady Beaufoy 
watched him from the window as his tall, lean 
figure disappeared round the comer of Queen 
Street. 

“Dear me — what luck for Evodia,” she said; 
“he will make a far better husband than Felix. 
And he will rule her with a rod of iron, which 
is always so good for a woman who has been 
spoilt ! Those Scaifes were a queer lot !” 


CHAPTER IX 


A squeaking as of innumerable and 
gigantic slate pencils heralded the ar- 
rival of the tram at one of the little stopping- 
places on the hills between the German-haunted 
retreat of Nervi and the white City of Palaces 
— Genoa the Proud. 

A man dismounted and turned seawards 
down one of the little narrow lanes enclosed 
by immensely high stone walls, behind which 
are the gardens of the villas and palace-like 
domains that possess such superb views of the 
Tyrrhenian Sea. 

The late November afternoon was very 
warm and still; the sky was of pure sapphire. 
It was such a day as the poetic meteorological 
reports of Italy described so charmingly as 
possessing “cielo sereno , mare tranquillo 
Lord Herton was glad, as he strode down the 
lane — roughly cobbled, with a strap of red tiles 
running ribbon- wise down the center — that at 
least during her weeks of exile Evodia must 
have known many such days of calm seas and 

316 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


317 


serene skies to soothe the heart-sickness from 
which he felt sure she must have suffered. 

After great storms and earthquakes that 
ruin and devastate, it is perhaps not too much 
to ask that the exterior circumstances of life 
may be such as will contribute to a semblance 
of peace and harmony. 

He stopped at last outside a finely wrought 
iron gate, and pushed it open. Slowly he 
walked up the avenue, where twin rows of 
cypresses stood sentinel-wise, sharply outlined 
against that sky of limpid, stainless blue. 

The garden possessed — as all beautiful 
Italian gardens do — the quality of mystery; 
it had deep shadows and sudden, abrupt spaces 
of light. A hedge of pink roses still in bloom 
showed wonderfully against the blue of sea 
and sky as he emerged from the avenue. The 
orchard between garden and sea was filled with 
olives and vineyards, with here and there a 
group of palms, a patch of maize. 

Pale paths seemed to lead the way into 
mysterious shadowed fastnesses, deeply shaded 
with ilex and pine. As he approached the 
big villa, he paused for a few minutes, survey- 
ing it calmly. He wished to take away with 
him a distinct photographic impression of this 
temporary home that had sheltered Evodia, 


318 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


A large, rather square, solid-looking house, 
painted in a tone more pink than cream, with 
the flat roof, the green shutters, the impreg- 
nable-looking exterior of the southern dwelling. 
Perhaps it had been a palace in the old days, 
this pale, strong building. The salt freshness 
of the sea, mingled with the odor of blossom- 
ing roses and lilies, gave the atmosphere a 
peculiar fragrance that delighted him. 

She had had at least, during these last weeks, 
sunshine, tranquillity, flowers. This wonder- 
ful blueness of sea and sky must have charmed 
her eyes, refreshed her soul. His heart beat 
high with hope. Nature seemed in such a 
calm, beneficent mood — surely all must go 
well! 

As he approached the villa he became aware 
of the sound of music reaching his ears through 
an open window. At once he recognized the 
voice to be Evodia’s. It was the first thing 
about her that had at once definitely attracted 
him, even as it had done Felix; and to hear 
it now, welcoming him, as it were, seemed to 
presage a successful issue of his mission. For 
the moment he was sufficiently overcome to 
tremble and turn pale. He was not an 
emotional man, but the prospect of seeing her, 
combined with this sudden and unexpected 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


319 


sound of her singing, was too strong for him. 
He had not seen her for nearly a year; the 
last time had been shortly before her engage- 
ment to Scaife. During that time, full of dis- 
aster to her, they had not met. To do him jus- 
tice, Herton had been genuinely shocked at the 
intelligence of the rupture between her and 
Felix. He was afraid that it had wounded 
her. He would have liked to shield her from 
all pain. Now he felt convinced that all had 
been for the best, since it was impossible that 
Felix could ever have understood her. He 
was too narrow-minded, too insular, too 
prejudiced, ever to have been capable of com- 
prehending her great and beautiful soul! 
Herton took heart of grace. A decent in- 
terval had elapsed since then; he had waited 
patiently until now, for he had no ambition to 
capture a heart on the rebound. Since his in- 
terview with Lady Beaufoy he had felt im- 
measurably hopeful. That she should smile 
upon him had pleased him. He had come to 
Genoa feeling assured, in a humble way, of 
success. And now he was close to the door 
of the villa; he was under the very shadow 
of that flushed palace-like building of 
Renaissance days as it looked down from its 
eyrie on the cliff upon that sea of silken blue. 


S20 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

And through the window he could hear her 
singing: 

“But for thee — but for thee — 

My wild hair shall braided be.” 

Yes — she sang the 4 ‘Enchantress” superbly 
with her deep organ-like notes. He paused 
on the smooth, hard path to listen. She had 
finished, and then almost at once she began 
to sing “Allerseelen.” Her voice rose and 
fell poignantly; she sang the song in German. 
When it came to an end, dying, as it were, on 
a note of supreme anguish and grief, he 
stepped up and rang the bell. The sound 
struck sharply against the sudden hush. 

He entered the long golden salon, with its 
painted ceiling deliciously limned; at a glance 
he noted its bright spaciousness, the faded 
beauties of the tapestries, the splendid 
pictures, the rare inlaid and carven furniture. 
At the far end Evodia was sitting by the 
piano, turning over some music. She wore 
white of some soft woolen material; her dark 
hair was outlined against the pale walls. Near 
her stood a tall, graceful-looking young man, 
with a vivid Italian face. A little further 
away a delicate woman, with blanched hair, 
sat working some embroidery with white 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


321 


tapered fingers that moved with deft rapidity. 

As Herton came in he heard the young man 
say in English: “I would rather hear you 
sing that than anything else!” 

Herton was never discomposed or em- 
barrassed; he had seen too much, heard too 
much, and had been to too many places and 
encountered far too many agonizingly difficult 
situations to feel ever ill at ease. He ad- 
vanced, smiling, with an assured air, feeling 
suddenly very old, very world-worn in the 
presence of these two young people, so ap- 
parently absorbed in each other and the music. 
Evodia looked very young and girlish; her 
face was less grave and serious than he ever 
remembered it; she was flushed with the exer- 
tion of singing. “I am not going to be 
jealous of that beautiful boy! I am old 
enough to be his father!” thought Lord Herton 
to himself. 

The Princess, hearing his name announced, 
put down her work and came forward to greet 
him. She wondered who this pale, ugly, dis- 
tinguished-looking man could be. A hope that 
it might be Felix flashed through her mind, 
but his words set it aside. “I had the pleasure 
of meeting you many years ago in Paris at the 
de Morignys’ house,” he said, “and I heard 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


from Lady Beaufoy that Miss Essex was stay- 
ing with you.” 

Evodia greeted him with a pretty smile of 
welcome. “Aunt Susan never told me you 
were in Genoa,” she said. 

“I have only just come,” he admitted. The 
touch of her hand seemed to drive the blood 
away from his heart; he thought she had 
never looked so beautiful before. 

“Have you seen Aunt Susan since she went 
back to town?” 

“I saw her on Monday,” he answered, “it 
was horribly foggy in London, and I think she 
was regretting Genoa.” 

Isidoro looked at him jealously. Who was 
this man? Not the quondam fiance of whom 
his mother had spoken — this elderly, gray- 
haired person, with the crooked face and eagle 
eyes? 

Evodia was so far from guessing the reason 
of his visit that she instantly imagined that he 
must have brought her bad news. 

“But I hope she was well?” she asked ea- 
gerly. 

“Very well. She asked me to tell you that 
Mrs. Bryden is much better, and she sent 
you all kinds of messages which I have for- 
gotten!” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


323 


After a time the Princess and her son with- 
drew, for she perceived that Herton’s visit 
concerned her young friend, and, since as it 
seemed he had come on purpose to see her, he 
would hardly require their presence at the in- 
terview. She did not heed Evodia’s beseech- 
ing glance, for the girl began to have a sudden 
premonition as to the probable cause of Her- 
ton’s sudden appearance. “I do hope Aunt 
Susan has not said anything to encourage him,” 
she thought. 

When they were alone Herton’s face grew 
set and grim; he looked very ugly and pur- 
poseful; she felt half afraid of him. 

“Lady Beaufoy said she didn’t think you 
intended to return to England very soon. She 
talked about your going to North Africa,” he 
said. 

“The Princess wants me to go with her and 
her son to stay with some cousins of theirs,” 
said Evodia. 

“I want you to come back soon,” said Her- 
ton, abruptly. 

“To come back?” said Evodia, feebly. 

“I want you to be my wife,” he said, in a 
harsh voice; “I have loved you from the first 
day I ever saw you. Then I heard of your 
engagement to Scaife. I didn’t like to speak 


3<M PRISONERS' YEARS 

to you at first — you were so young, and I’m 
years older than you — it didn’t seem fair — 
you’d seen so few people. And I knew Lady 
Beaufoy — I thought she might over-persuade 
you, because I’m so confoundedly rich! Your 
engagement gave me a hard knock! But it’s 
all over — and I won’t tell you what I thought 
about your having to go through that awful 
time of trial — and misery — and disillusion- 
ment!” He had had no intention of saying all 
this, but somehow the words slipped out, and 
he felt some relief at being able to express the 
sympathy he had always felt for her. “But 
you see for yourself you can’t go on being Miss 
Essex — you’re too young and too beautiful — 
and you will never find any one the whole 
world through who loves you as I do. I know 
you don’t care for these things, but the Chase 
isn’t a bad shanty in its way, and I’ll make 
any improvement you like, and I shan’t let 
Grosvenor Square again, when the present ten- 
ant leaves in March! And I’ve come out here 
on purpose to ask you to be my wife — to put 
all this before you, and ask you if you could 
put up with an ugly chap, twice your age, who 
is utterly unworthy of one touch of your 
hand!” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


325 


Evodia sat very still and silent. Never had 
she thought of this possible solution of the 
problem of her life. That it offered a solu- 
tion was abundantly clear to her, to return to 
England as Lord Herton’s fiancee would rem- 
edy the past failure of her life ; would heal her 
sorely-wounded pride, and would be a source 
of profound relief to all her relations and 
friends. She had never heard Axel’s caustic 
utterance: “No doubt she will see Alps upon 
Alps arise ” . . . and she did not know that 
in their worldly eyes her only possible course 
of action was to make as good a marriage as 
she could. Personally, she liked Lord Her- 
ton; he had been friendly, sympathetic, and 
appreciative of her singing; she had never, 
however, suspected him of any deeper feeling 
for her. His words now touched her. The 
thought came to her that if she had never seen 
Felix she would have consented to become 
his wife. But an image of Felix rose up be- 
fore her — the pale and troubled face of the 
man who had lost all his worldly possessions — 
the outcast of fortune — the man whom she had 
loved so dearly, and who had so bitterly disap- 
pointed her. 

“Perhaps it is too soon,” he said, breaking 


326 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


in upon her thoughts; “but oh, my dear — I will 
be patient — I will wait — only give me some 
hope!” 

He moved across to the window and looked 
out upon the beautiful scene. It all seemed to 
him to be painted in soft tones of blue and 
silver ; silver were the olives, and the wide, pale 
bay, cut by the white, sharp sails of the fish- 
ing boats that looked like great butterflies 
gracefully poised; blue was that dome of flash- 
ing sky, quivering, indeterminate. A group 
of black cypresses seemed to point gloomy fin- 
gers to that strange, beautiful blueness. Porto 
Fino dipped a great violet arm into the sea, 
cleaving its silver pallor. He could see the 
glittering coast-line that ended in that splen- 
did promontory, with the little white towns 
clustering close to the shore, and the dark, de- 
fined slope where the road cut its way round 
the hills. 

A dull hatred of the man who had hurt her 
so cruelly, smoldered in his heart. 

“I will make you happy again,” he said; 
“I only ask to be permitted to love you, and 
to wait — until some day I have taught you to 
love me — ever so little in return!” 

She roused herself; his words touched her, 
across those desolate spaces, wherein she had 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 3 n 

moved for more than half a year, a little rift of 
human light sped healingly. 

“It is too late,” she said ; “it wouldn’t be fair 
to you. I’ve nothing to give you in return for 
your love. I am not unhappy now.” She 
turned eyes of such immense sadness towards 
him that he found some difficulty in believing 
her. “All that is quite past, and I am learning 
to be contented — not to rebel.” 

The sun was in Herton’s iron-gray eyes, 
blinding them. 

So she would forge no new links. Across 
her numbness and isolation even the warmth 
and ardor of his love were powerless to pene- 
trate. 

“And you won’t let me try and help you, 
Evodia?” he said, his voice dwelling on her 
name with curious tenderness. 

“If any one could have helped me — I think 
it would have been you. Believe me, that your 
love has touched me very much. I shall never 
forget it — but I cannot care for you like that. 
Sometimes I think that my heart is quite dead 
— I cannot care for anything or any one — it 
has all been killed.” 

“I am sorry,” he said; his voice was harsh 
and grating; he tried to conceal the emotion 
he felt. Her loveliness unnerved him. He 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


wanted to touch her hand — her hair. But it 
was no use prolonging a scene that meant mis- 
ery to both of them. She had been perfectly 
frank and honest with him. The time came 
for him to leave her. He held her hands as 
if he could never let them go. Then he turned 
away and left her. Back through the garden, 
his footsteps scarcely sounding on the smooth 
path; down the avenue, full now of haunting, 
mysterious shadows, across ways that shone 
palely in the gloom of twilight. A bugle rang 
out from the old fort. The Ave Maria bell 
sounded from the little church on the rocks. 
He went back down the hill with a hard, set 
face — the face of a stone image. 

As he passed through the crowded streets 
of Genoa, scarcely heeding where he was go- 
ing, he seemed like a man in a dream — hearing 
nothing — seeing nothing. But upon his hand 
still burned the touch of hers; he did not hear 
the stir of traffic, the rumble of the heavy mule- 
carts, with their tinkling bells; the warning 
hoots of the motors and trams; rather he was 
back in that softly shadowed, mysterious room. 
This hour, precious and tranquil, seemed to 
belong only to her whom his passionate love 
had failed to win; her beautiful and beloved 
presence restfully filled it. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


329 


And across the silence her voice came, ten- 
der, tremulous. 

“But for thee — but for thee — 

My wild hair shall braided be;” 

the song of the enchantress, whose spells love 
had conquered — its echo followed him all 
through the weary, sleepless night. 











BOOK III 


“And ruin’d love, when it is built anew. 

Grows fairer than at first.” 

Sonnet CXIX. 


CHAPTER I 

E vodia could not sleep. The train had left 
Genoa shortly before eight o’clock in the 
evening, and she was sharing the Princess’s lit- 
salon. The Princess lay asleep, and Evodia 
was half afraid to disturb her ; in her slumbers 
her face looked white and carven, thin almost 
to asceticism, almost mystical in its repose; it 
had something of the look of a marble figure. 
She slipped out of her narrow bed, and, draw- 
ing aside the blind, looked out into the night. 
There was a brilliant moon. On one side of 
the railway lay the Mediterranean, very calm 
and milk-pale under a sky flooded with silver 
and lit with clusters of golden stars; and on 
the other side stretched the endless olive-woods 
against a background of gray, shadowy moun- 
tains ranged sentinel-like against the sky. 
And as they passed by town and village, past 

331 


332 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


Savona, Alassio, San Remo, on through Men- 
tone and the fair, sleeping cities of Nice and 
Cannes, the white shapes of villa and hotel 
were transformed into fairy palaces by the 
moon, aglimmer with silver light, guarded by 
groves of palm-trees that gave them a curi- 
ously Oriental aspect. The faint murmur of 
the sea reached her ears as it touched the shore 
with an edge of foam as fragile and insub- 
stantial as lace. Sometimes a steamer’s black 
shape, lit with ruby and golden lights gleam- 
ing like jewels, passed across the pale white- 
ness of the sea and vanished into the purple 
night, as though bound upon some mysterious 
secret mission. She had the sensation, which 
nearly all travelers must sometimes experience, 
of being not so much herself, but, as it were, 
out of herself — a spectator watching new scenes 
and feeling new emotions that were yet al- 
ways detached and impersonal. She seemed, 
in fine, so very far away from the familiar fig- 
ures of Lady Beaufoy,. Axel, and Sophy, 
James and Milly Bryden. She seemed actu- 
ally removed as in a world apart from the ag- 
onizing remembrance of Felix. She could 
hardly believe that she had loved him, loved 
him, too, though she was half unaware of it, 
with the absorbing passion which creates a new 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


333 


isolation of soul. In some other existence she 
seemed to have willingly separated herself 
from him almost on the very eve of becoming 
his wife. . . . His wife! The word awoke in 
her the old pain; it was as a knife thrust 
straight and sharp against her wound. She 
was again Evodia Essex who had undergone 
this grievous torment of mind and spirit; she 
was no idle spectator, she was playing the first 
part in the little drama. As the slow salt tears 
burned and scalded her eyes, she seemed sud- 
denly, almost incongruously, to be back in the 
convent chapel on the Albaro Hill, listening to 
the singing, soft and ineffably sweet, of the hid- 
den nuns. She could hear the Latin words 
as they sang the Litany of Loreto, with its 
divine and appealing beauty. 

“Mater Christi, 

Mater Divinae gratiae. 

Mater purissima — 

Ora pro nobis.” 

Then the train caught up and echoed the 
rhythm of the words; she heard it again and 
again : 

“Mater boni consilii — Ora pro nobis.” 

She saw again the gold Monstrance with 
its Treasure faintly veiled, the very center of 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


334 ? 

Catholic worship, the supreme appeal to faith. 
She saw the dark grille that concealed the nuns 
who sang with such tenderness; she wondered 
why that half-forgotten hour at Albaro should 
come back to her memory now, should follow 
so swiftly upon her unwilling remembrance of 
Felix. 

Felix— she seemed to see him again as he 
stood before her that last evening in London; 
his face with its strange beauty, the grave 
mouth, the sad, stern, haggard eyes. . • . And 
then she glanced for a moment upon the now 
half-hidden face of the sleeping Princess, to 
whom also these things had brought peace in 
the midst of irreparable sorrow, and for the 
first time perhaps the thought definitely 
shaped itself in her mind. Were they right 
— and was she wrong? There was so much 
that seemed to her irritatingly and unnecessar- 
ily mysterious in the Catholic religion. No 
one had ever explained anything to her, and 
whenever she had visited a Catholic church she 
had been overwhelmed by this strange sense 
of mystery. Catholics seemed to take for 
granted that she knew the great dogmas of 
their faith, whereas she was curiously igno- 
rant. She had read no books on the subject 
written from the Catholic point of view. Such 


PRISONERS’ YEARS SS5 

books as she had seen were Protestant, con- 
troversial and incorrect. Her mind wandered 
now to the kneeling Cardinal in San Lorenzo, 
who had apostatized and then repented, and 
still knelt as one entreating for penance and 
absolution. That white figure, sharply em- 
phasized by the surrounding gloom of the 
church, assumed in her thoughts a pitiful and 
tragic aspect, as if the marble shape had been 
informed with the restless, troubled spirit that 
still sought vainly for forgiveness for great 
sins committed so long ago. Then she remem- 
bered her passing irritation at the little Italian 
girl, who had knelt beside her in the convent 
chapel, reciting her rosary with such aston- 
ishing if careless fluency and ease. She had 
felt annoyed that this small peasant girl should 
understand where she herself was ignorant. 
She had sat mute between them — the Princess 
and this shabby child of the people. She 
could see her now, the little face, with its big 
lustrous black eyes, the thick dark hair sur- 
mounted by a piece of lace. Not very devout 
nor apparently pious, but yet eagerly absorbed 
in the business of praying as a necessary epi- 
sode of the day. This child and the Princess, 
socially as the poles apart, were here equal, 
and equally they had seemed to participate in 


336 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


this beautiful appeal to the Mother of God 
for intercession and prayer. So this child, ig- 
norant and unlearned, was yet less ignorant 
than she when set face to face with the 
Holy Mysteries of the Catholic Church. She 
had watched the child when the service came 
to an end, when the hidden nuns had ceased 
singing, and the little acolyte had extinguished 
with great care the lights that burned on the 
Altar. She saw her genuflect towards the Al- 
tar with an ease that long custom had rendered 
almost careless; she watched her dip her little 
brown finger into the stoup and cross herself 
with holy water. And she had felt a kind of 
angry envy that she herself could not do these 
things, that if she had genuflected she would 
have done it perhaps awkwardly, as one who 
attempts a posture for the first time, and that 
she did not know how to cross herself. The 
Princess, too, did these simple actions, but with 
the grace and reverence which seemed insep- 
arable from her. She was devout and pious, 
and these exterior actions were, in a sense, re- 
flections of that deep interior holiness which 
Evodia, untaught as she was, could not but 
recognize. The little girl had in no way 
seemed to participate in this detached piety, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 337 

yet it was she who had succeeded in making 
Evodia first angry and then envious. 

The rumble of the train made her drowsy, 
and she sat down on the end of her narrow bed 
and looked out to sea. The Southern night 
was a dream of beauty. Though it was now 
December there was scarcely any touch of win- 
ter in the still air. The sea in its silver gray 
pallor looked like a glimmering pool. How 
calm it was to-night! She thought she would 
like to be sailing upon it now. To-morrow, 
perhaps, she would really be upon it, sailing 
southward towards Africa — Africa the un- 
known, that lay across that gleaming silver 
strip of the Mediterranean. 


CHAPTER II 


bout six o’clock the following morning 



A the train drew up in the busy station of 
Marseille. Isidoro appeared looking quite 
fresh after his night’s journey, and immedi- 
ately took his mother and Evodia to the hotel 
to have some breakfast, and, after sharing this 
meal with them, he left them and went off to 
the bureau of the steamship company to secure 
their cabins. He had ascertained that the 
steamer was to start at one o’clock for Bone. 
There was time, therefore, for them to rest and 
do a little sight-seeing. The Princess wished 
to visit the Church of Notre Dame de la Garde, 
and invited Evodia to accompany her. 

Later in the morning they drove down the 
wide sun-flooded length of the far-famed Can- 
nebiere, where the flower-sellers had arranged 
their great baskets, which, filled with exquisite 
blossoms, made a brilliant patch of color. 
Mammoth bunches of violets in their damp 
purple sweetness; boughs of mimosa that 
seemed to have imprisoned the Southern sun- 
light in their gay tassels of gold ; long-stalked 


338 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 339 

roses of fragile shell-pink, filled the soft air 
of the Midi with suave perfume. For to-day 
Marseille was in an angelic mood; there was 
no disagreeable mistral blowing, and the sun 
shone with almost summer warmth. The hu- 
mid, caressing airs brought a tinge of color to 
Evodia’s face. They drove up through the 
narrow, tortuous little streets to the foot of 
the hill whereon the famous church is built. 

The sign-board announced that there was 
a “walk of 10 minutes,” and they agreed to 
go on foot. The path was stony and steep, 
and they did not speak much on the way. The 
church, as they approached it, seemed almost 
small in proportion to the immense golden fig- 
ure of Our Lady which surmounted it, and 
stood out vividly against a sky of purest blue. 
More fort than church, as has been said, it 
dominates proudly the surrounding scene. In 
the porch they paused and looked seawards 
over the clustered red roofs, the white streets, 
the ilex and chestnut woods, and the gathered 
groups of cypress-spires. They saw the har- 
bor serenely blue, and the outline of the coast 
showing in tones of misty amethyst and opal. 
Chateau d’lf, with all its memories of Ed- 
mand Dantes — perhaps the most permanently 
real of all the heroes of fiction — and of his 


840 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


thrilling escape, which no one can read without 
an agony of suspense, showed prominently 
across the harbor. There was the Phare of 
Our Lady; close at hand, too, there was the 
orphanage of Our Lady, here was her church, 
here her statue. Star of the Sea, she claimed 
the prayers of the sailors, who had built with 
their poor offerings this church in her honor, 
entreating her suffrages and prayers. She 
seemed to Evodia to dominate the Catholic 
world. 

They entered the church through the porch, 
over which was inscribed: Felix coeli porta . 
The Princess knelt down, and Evodia felt con- 
strained to follow her example. She did not 
wish to hurt her friend’s feelings, nor did she 
desire to display either disrespect or irrever- 
ence, or even indifference to the religious be- 
liefs of others. She had visited innumerable 
Catholic churches as a sight-seer, never dream- 
ing of uttering a single prayer, but she had 
realized long ago that to the Princess a church 
was, before all, a place to pray in. 

Some English tourists were already in the 
church. Evodia could not resist the tempta- 
tion of watching them. One was an elderly 
lady, who moved about on tip-toe looking at 
the votive offerings through a lorgnette; she 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


341 


bowed, but did not genuflect as she passed 'the 
High Altar. The others were quite evidently 
bride and bridegroom; both were young, and 
dressed in the English manner ; they chattered 
aloud, and the man gave a suppressed shout of 
laughter as he looked at an impossible picture 
of a ship dipping over at an absurd angle on 
the top of a large, solid-looking green wave. 
Evodia did not know why, but the laugh, in 
which the woman joined more quietly, filled 
her with resentment. She could not bear that 
piety, in any shape, should excite the open 
ridicule of others. And the pictures, hung 
there as votive offerings, were in many in- 
stances quite frankly absurd, ill-drawn, ill- 
painted, betraying no knowledge of perspec- 
tive. They represented for the most part such 
subjects as shipwrecks, children falling over 
the staircase or from the roofs or windows of 
high houses, and being rescued by the Blessed 
Virgin, a picture of whom always appeared 
in some unlikely corner. Some of the offer- 
ings excited compassion rather than ridicule 
— such as crutches, splints, surgical appliances, 
no longer needed by those who had prayed 
for the intercession of the Mother of God in 
their quest for healing. There were rosaries, 
too, made of gold, with jeweled beads; cruci- 


342 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


fixes, medals, and innumerable marble tablets 
with Reconnaissance a Marie inscribed upon 
them, with name and date. 

Evodia wondered a little why the Princess 
should remain so undisturbed by the talking 
and laughter, the exclamations of scorn and 
contempt. She knelt there, her calm face hid- 
den by the black veil, her lips moving slightly 
in prayer. The gleam of a rosary showed be- 
tween her slender, ungloved fingers. 

When they left the church to rejoin the car- 
riage at the foot of the hill the Princess said 
simply : 

“I have been praying to Our Lady to bless 
our journey to Africa.” 

Evodia did not answer. She looked out 
again at the blue sea, cut by the white sails; 
at the busy harbor so full of great steamers; 
at the moving groups crowded on the quays. 
She looked too at the Phare, and the grim 
outline of Chateau dTf, incredibly softened 
by the glimmer of sunshine. 

“We must have some luncheon before we 
go on board,” said the Princess as they drove 
back to the town. “Isidoro will have seen 
to our luggage, and he said he would meet us 
at the Hotel du Sud.” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


343 


They found Isidoro waiting for them on the 
steps of the hotel. 

“You are rather late,” he said; “we have 
only three-quarters of an hour and then we 
must positively go on board. I bought some 
flowers and a quantity of books, and some Eng- 
lish papers for Miss Essex” — he gave Evodia 
one of his bright, vivid smiles — “and I have 
prowled round all the second-hand book-shops 
I could find to see if there was anything worthy 
of Mademoiselle’s acceptance. This is the 
only thing I could discover, and it will not be 
of much use to you, but it is a charming bibe- 
lot.” And from his pocket he produced a lit- 
tle worn copy of the “Hours of Our Lady.” 
The faded blue leather binding was delicately 
traced with gold, and the psalms and anti- 
phons, wrought by hand in black letter, had 
illuminated head-pieces and margins skilfully 
limned by some hand “that in dead years had 
done delicious things.” 

Evodia gave a cry of delight. “It is beau- 
tiful,” she said. 

“Yes — is it not?” said Isidoro, who seemed 
quite unaware that his gift might possibly have 
been unacceptable even under the guise of a 
bibelot. His mother glanced curiously at 
Evodia as she bent over the exquisitely illu- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


su 

minated pages glowing with rose and gold, her 
face animated, her eyes sparkling. 

“1 think it is quite charming,” she said, 
looking up and meeting Isidoro’s eyes fixed 
upon her with an expression of attentive sym- 
pathy. 

“I am glad you like it,” he said simply. 
“And now we must eat without loss of time. 
Bouillabaisse — of course you will eat bouilla- 
baisse, mademoiselle. All your countrymen 
do when they come to Marseille, because your 
Thackeray praised it — quite extravagantly, 
some of us think. He wrote an ode in honor 
of it also and, since then the French have 
formed the opinion that he was a gourmet. 
There is certainly a good deal about eating 
and drinking in his books.” 

When they went on board Evodia found that 
her cabin was exactly opposite the Princess’s, 
and both were gay with the masses of flow- 
ers — violets, narcissus, and roses — that Isidoro 
had placed there. “There!” he said, “they do 
not look so dreary now, and I hope you will 
find them comfortable. We shall have a per- 
fect crossing if this weather lasts and if we 
do not meet the hateful mistral on our way. 
For myself, I do not mind at all, but, dear 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


345 


mother, you hate the sea, do you not? And 
you — do you like it?” he asked Evodia. 

“I’ve never been further than across the 
Channel,” said Evodia. “But I am sure I 
shall like it. Last night when we were in the 
train I looked out of the window, and the 
moonlight was beautiful on the Mediterranean, 
and I had a great wish to be on one of the 
steamers that passed — going far — very far — 
across the sea!” 

“Into the unknown!” cried Isidoro, enthu- 
siastically; “I have felt that. It is the spirit 
of travel awakening — it is like a voice. Per- 
sonally I always obey it. I have been almost 
everywhere — east and west, north and south. 
But this is my first visit to Algeria, though I 
have been in Egypt and Morocco.” 

All the afternoon Evodia sat in a sheltered 
corner of the deck, smothered with rugs. 
Sometimes Isidoro came and sat with her, 
smoking his endless cigarettes and talking 
gaily. The Princess was tired, and had al- 
ready sought refuge in her cabin, for she dis- 
liked the motion of the steamer, even when the 
sea was quite calm. When she was not sea- 
sick she suffered from giddiness and headache, 
and preferred to lie down. But Evodia found 
herself thoroughly enjoying it. Among the 


S46 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


books which Isidoro had bought for them at 
Marseille she found one called “Notes de 
Routes,” by Isabelle Eberhardt. This at- 
tracted her very much, and she was already 
deeply interested in it when Isidoro joined 
her. 

“Ah, I thought you would like that!” he 
said. “She was as strange a woman as your 
English Lady Hester Stanhope — oh, yes, I 
have read my Eothen! But she was young 
and really more remarkable. She was wild 
— as Russians can be when they fling off their 
fetters. She lived in the desert dressed as 
an Arab boy; once she served as a soldier call- 
ing herself Si Mahmoud. And look at her 
face — there is a portrait of her — so reckless 
— so brave! She died bravely; she was 
drowned saving her husband’s life. A reser- 
voir burst and the waters overwhelmed her 
home.” 

The personality of this woman seemed to 
breathe from her pages, and Evodia began al- 
ready to feel something of the strange atmos- 
phere of the mysterious continent to which she 
was going. She began to feel almost excited 
about her life at this unknown Villa Saida. 
The Happy Villa — she hoped it would prove 
a happy one for them all. Perhaps this tran- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


347 


quil life, free from immense sorrows and im- 
mense joys, would help to restore her own rav- 
aged peace of mind. She had not yet arrived 
at that point when she could sincerely pray 
that the remembrance of Felix might be 
blotted out of her heart. Grief, she felt, could 
hold no greater bitterness than that she should 
be able deliberately to make this prayer. 

Long ago Marseille, sparkling in the sun- 
shine, had faded from sight. She had watched 
Notre Dame de la Garde sink into the mists 
like a phantom figure. Almost she could have 
fancied that the great golden statue had 
stretched out the Child towards her with a ges- 
ture of appeal. Even the faint amethyst out- 
line of the French coast had vanished. They 
were on the wide sea now, and already the 
sky was tinged with grayness, and a little 
breeze had sprung up, stirring the waves to 
restless agitation. She liked the buoyant 
movement of the ship as she plunged forward, 
the curious, almost personal joy with which she 
dipped her bows to meet the brusque caress 
of the waves ; it awoke in Evodia an answering 
excitement, as any kind of swift motion often 
does in nervous or sensitive persons. She saw 
the white gulls hovering and flashing over the 
ship ; she thought they looked like messengers 


348 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


of peace. Then suddenly a wave splashed 
across the deck. 

“There!” said Isidoro; “we shall have to go 
into the salon — you will get wet if you remain 
here.” 

“Oh, don’t let us go in! Couldn’t we move 
our chairs? I like being here — I like watching 
the sea!” she said eagerly. 

She had put on a close-fitting cap of dark 
blue cloth, and over it she had tied a white 
motor veil that framed her face, closely almost 
as a nun’s coif. The dark collar of her fur 
coat came up to her chin. She looked very 
beautiful, with her eyes dark with excitement, 
and her face, whipped by the sea wind, was all 
aglow with soft color. 

“You like it? You are a good sailor?” said 
Isidoro, admiringly. 

“Yes — but I had not any idea I should like 
it as much as this!” 

At last the light faded out of the sky, the 
breeze dropped, the sea grew calmer. And 
the stars came out one by one, pricking the 
sky like flickering lamps. 


CHAPTER III 

I t was nearly midnight on the following day 
when the steamer at last dropped anchor 
in the charming little harbor of Bone. Rough 
weather had been encountered during the day, 
which had considerably delayed the progress 
of the vessel, but the night was perfectly clear, 
and there was a brilliant moon, which showed 
the mountainous outline of the coast from Cap 
de Garde to Cap Rosa — giant shapes which 
seemed to watch over city and sea like great 
sentinels. Numerous white villas, clearly dis- 
cernible among the shadowy olive-woods, 
dotted the hills. The sea was tranquil, as it 
had been when Evodia watched it from the 
train, and the moonlight was far more bril- 
liant. For here was the South — the magic 
South with her power to call. It seemed as 
if all her warm and suave airs were enfolding 
Evodia in their embrace. Never had she seen 
stars of such magical radiance as these that 
welcomed her to Africa. Rows of lights shone 
along the quay and outlined the streets and 
boulevards, showing what seemed to be a large 

349 


350 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


and spreading town built upon two hills and 
upon the low-lying ground that lay between 
them. 

“See, it is like a little Naples, with its moun- 
tains and town sloping down to the sea!” said 
Isidoro, “and the white villas nestling on the 
hills. It only wants a Vesuvius throwing up 
smoke in the background to make the likeness 
complete.” 

They drove to the Hotel Orient for the 
night, as the Princess was exhausted with the 
discomfort of the journey. She had suffered 
much from sea-sickness, and wished to avoid 
another night spent upon the hard couchette 
in the cramped quarters of the cabin. Isidoro 
escorted his mother and Evodia ashore, and re- 
turned himself to the steamer, promising to 
come back early in the morning with the re- 
mainder of their luggage ; this he assured them 
was the simplest plan. He was extraordina- 
rily thoughtful for their comfort, and had ar- 
ranged everything for them with the help of his 
faithful valet, Giuliano, who always accom- 
panied him on his journeys, and would gladly 
have laid down his life for his adored young 
master. 

Lying as it does so far to the east of Al- 
geria, Bone retains much that is definitely Ori- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


351 


ental. Though less visited by tourists than 
her great neighbor, Tunis, she is rich in asso- 
ciation, and has had a troubled history. A 
little to the south, at Souk-Ahrass, St. Au- 
gustine was born, but Hippo was the place of 
his long ministry and of his death, while still 
the Vandal hordes assailed the brave little cita- 
del. In building the new town the Arabs, 
partly from superstition, avoided the site of 
Hippo Regius, for so long the favorite summer 
residence of the Numidian kings. The cis- 
terns of Adrian, now restored, were objects 
of horror to the natives, for they believed them 
to be the sinister abodes of ghoul and djinn. 
But now, on the very site it is said of the an- 
cient Church of the Peace, the new basilica 
rears its white Mauresque shape, proudly dom- 
inating the hill of Hippone, and presenting a 
' lasting tribute to the zeal and energy of its 
great founder. Cardinal Lavigerie. Beloved 
of all classes and revered even by the Arabs, 
who christened him affectionately the Great 
White Marabout, the tasks which he accom- 
plished in Algeria and Tunis seem almost too 
immense to have been the work of one man. 
The basilicas of Carthage and Hippone were 
built by him, and far in the desert the White 
Fathers carry on the work that was always 


352 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


dearest to his heart — the spreading of the Faith 
to the ignorant and desolate. He has been 
called the St. Francis Xavier of Africa. 

The Princess was somewhat rested on the 
following day, but she deferred their journey 
to the Villa Saida in order that they might see 
something of Bone. In the morning they 
drove to Hippone, which lies at a little distance 
beyond the town. The great hill, around 
which flow the twin rivers of Seybouse and 
Boudjimah, is thickly grown with olives, pome- 
granates, almond and ilex trees. Violets and 
narcissus were blooming in the spaces near the 
church. A sky of deepest lapis hung over the 
scene; it was a beautiful day, and the sun 
shone with quite a fierce heat. 

Isidoro accompanied them, and chattered a 
kind of mixture of French and Arabic to the 
native driver, who was so black as almost to 
resemble a negro. 

“We must see the church first, and then we 
can go and look at the Roman Villa,” said Isi- 
doro. “Do you see that immense convent be- 
hind the church? That belongs to the Little 
Sisters of the Poor. What a delightful asy- 
lum for them!” 

They got out of the carriage halfway up 
the hill, which was very steep, and walked up 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


653 


to the church. Within, it was spacious and 
severely simple, with aisles of immense high 
marble columns as in the Roman basilicas. 
The exquisite African marbles of varying 
tones — the rose-colored ones from the quarries 
of Filfilla, the rarer blue from Nador, have 
been employed in the decoration of the church. 
The white marble Altar, where the precious 
relic, the fore-arm of St. Augustine, is pre- 
served in its crystal shrine, is the object of 
many pilgrimages. The arm was transferred 
from Pavia with much ceremony in the year 
1843, for the body of the Saint had been taken 
during the persecutions first to Cagliari and 
then to Pavia by his faithful disciples. From 
the size of the limb it is conjectured that St. 
Augustine must have been short in stature, 
not more than five feet five in height. 

Isidoro professed himself disappointed at 
the total absence of any copies of Benozzo 
Gozzoli whose famous frescoes depicting the 
Saint’s life adorn the Church of St. Augustine 
at San Gimignano. 

“Nothing but Ary Scheffer,” he said, dis- 
dainfully. “Of course, I know it is built for 
the French, and by the French. Still I would 
rather have had Gozzoli’s Death of St. Monica 
with the dog biting the dear little boy’s fat 


354 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


leg. Such a scamp with his impudent, yet 
frightened face! Yes — and St. Augustine en- 
tering the grammar-school — looking all rebel- 
lion, and St. Monica pale, and sad, and brave. 
I have been told that the Arabs have always had 
a half-superstitious reverence for this place: 
they believe that St. Augustine sometimes re- 
visits the spot so beloved by him in life, wear- 
ing a burnous of dazzling whiteness, and that 
he can only be seen and approached by the pure 
in heart.” 

“You think so much of the saints,” said 
Evodia, “I wonder why it is?” 

“Oh, well,” he said, “you can’t help know- 
ing about them, if you live in Italy, even if you 
are an absolute pagan! To start with, the 
study of Italian art teaches you so much about 
their lives and legends, and if you happen to 
be a Catholic, the Church brings them so con- 
stantly to your remembrance. And the pic- 
tures help us to remember their wonderful 
histories — the struggles through which so many 
passed in order to become saints. We are 
surrounded by them, as it were, from our ear- 
liest. But don’t think,” he added, returning 
to his first statement, “that I am despising Ary 
Scheffer because he is a modern. I like the 
picture well enough — the stern Rom^tn face so 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


355 


patrician of St. Augustine, and the fair serene 
one of St. Monica who lived to see her heart’s 
desire accomplished in this son of hers. Who 
was it who said that she won the name and 
grade of saint by the long martyrdom of her 
wounded maternity? His wonderful gift of 
faith was the answer to her prayers. Only I 
find it — how does one say ? — a little bit too sen- 
timental. The old masters were never senti- 
mental until Raphael came. There is an Altar 
here, with a sculptured representation of the 
picture.” 

They stood in front of the Altar, and looked 
at the group of mother and son, with their rapt 
intense faces. Isidoro slipped his hand within 
his mother’s arm. “You would pray for me 
like that, night and day, if I ceased to be a good 
Catholic?” he said, in a low tone, but in a voice 
so strangely serious that Evodia could scarcely 
believe she had heard the words aright. The 
Princess looked up into his vivid, dark face 
and smiled. “Silly boy — of course I should!” 

Evodia remembered that she had said to her 
once in Genoa : “If I have given Isidoro noth- 
ing else, I have given him the faith!” 

When they left the church, they visited the 
convent of the Little Sisters of the Poor, and 
talked for some little time to the French nuns, 


356 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


and to one who was an Italian, and who was 
delighted to have an opportunity of speak- 
ing her own language again. Their next stop 
was made at the Jardin Chevillot, where the 
French owner in making the necessary exca- 
vations for the foundations of his new house, 
suddenly came upon a portion of a Roman 
villa. The fine mosaic pavement was seen in 
all its perfection under the warm, bright sun- 
light, and the French workmen poured water 
over the surface to bring out more clearly the 
jewel-like hues of its exquisite pattern, repre- 
senting Amphitrite riding her 'marine Mon- 
ster,” a panther with the tail of a fish, towards 
whose maw she is holding out the thin, flat cake 
called galette. Attendant nymphs and centaurs 
accompany her, and the background is deli- 
cately patterned with undulating black lines to 
represent the waves of the sea upon the ivory 
white marble. Here was, indeed, part of the 
Hippo of St. Augustine; close by Isidoro as- 
sured her he must have written his immortal 
works — "The Confessions,” "The City of 
God.” The Church of the Peace where he 
taught and prayed, and said Mass, for up- 
wards of forty years, his study, and library, his 
home where he died just before the end of the 
siege, when his beloved city fell into the hands 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


357 


of the vandals — all had lain under this serene, 
African sky, within sight of the amethyst 
mountains, the blue and silver of the Mediter- 
ranean, the olive and orange groves. 

Some scarlet geraniums and late roses still 
bloomed there, and the narcissi and violets 
filled the air with their fragrance. The orange 
trees were hung with masses of pendant golden 
fruit that made them look like some fairy 
plantation. 

They wrote their names in the visitors’ book 
and noticed that only last week Pierre de 
Clairville had done the same. 

“Yes — M. le Comte was here only last 
week,” said the foreman; “he had not visited 
the ruins for some years, and of course there 
is much more to see now.” 

“And did Madame la Comtesse come too?” 
asked the Princess. 

“No, madame — he came alone. But he told 
me that they are both enchanted with the Villa 
Saida. It is not astonishing. Poor M. Gas- 
par d built a beautiful house there. It is as 
fine as any villa at Nice!” he added, en- 
thusiastically. 

They drove hack to the hotel for luncheon, 
which was served in their private sitting-room. 

“These are the things you must eat in Bone,” 


358 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


said Isidoro, as a dish of immense prawns was 
handed to them by the Italian waiter. “They 
are cooked in white wine.” His gastronomical 
knowledge seemed in Evodia’s eyes quite on 
a par with his knowledge of hagiology. 

“Isidoro always knows what one must eat,” 
said his mother; “I believe if you put him down 
on a desert island he would say: This island 
is famous for its cocoa-nuts — you must eat 
them cooked in such and such a manner!” 

“It is a gift,” remarked Isidoro, com- 
placently, eating his prawns with evident en- 
joyment. 

From the windows they could see the broad 
boulevard white and sunlit, its fine trees inter- 
spersed with slender feathery-topped date- 
palms, and the motley throng of Arabs, Moors, 
and Kabyles, passing leisurely up and down. 
The scene was wonderfully Oriental and pic- 
turesque, and Evodia felt that she should never 
tire of watching it. There was something 
captivating about this bright little Algerian 
port called by the Arabs Bled-el-Anaba, the 
City of the Jujube Tree. There was still the 
Arab quarter to be seen, and in the afternoon, 
Isidoro accompanied her thither, for the 
Princess was too tired to do any more sight- 
seeing. It was Evodia’s first glimpse of 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


359 


Oriental life, and she felt she could never for- 
get that place of dim bazaars, of dark tunnel- 
like little streets where the Arabs, who looked 
commonplace enough in their white burnouses 
on quay and boulevard, seemed here to become 
mysterious, ghostly figures, fit inmates for the 
illimitable palace of the Fairy Peri-Banou. 
Here and there a veiled woman passed with 
great dark eyes strangely wistful above the 
white veil — Amine in all her fairness and 
beauty come to life. She saw the endless shoe- 
makers plying their craft; the masses of water- 
jars shaped like a Greek vase, and often 
delicately patterned, exposed for sale. Old 
brass and silver wares, rugs of soft texture 
and exquisite coloring, glimmered in the 
shadows of the little shops. In the darkened 
cafes they could see the white-clad Arabs 
lolling indolently on the wooden benches, or 
sitting about in groups playing their eternal 
games of draughts and ronda. Sometimes an 
exclamation, a half -suppressed mirthless laugh 
could be heard, but the silence was for the most 
part unbroken. 

But of all the sights of that busy day, 
Evodia felt that she should most clearly re- 
member the moment when she stood with the 
mother and son before the Altar of St. 


360 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


Augustine and St. Monica in the great 
basilica on the hill of Hippone. It seemed 
to her, when she reflected upon it in her room, 
after she retired that night, that it was by some 
curious freak of fate that here in Africa, as 
in Italy, she should be surrounded by those 
things from which she longed most of all to 
escape. She was again surrounded by that 
atmosphere which had so fatally enmeshed 
Felix. Was the Princess trying deliberately 
to break down those barriers which had so per- 
manently divided them? She could almost 
have believed this possible. Certainly the 
Princess was a very devout woman; her whole 
life seemed concentrated upon these things ; she 
spent the greater part of her time in prayer 
and meditation. Some of her own bitter prej- 
udices had been broken down by this serene 
example of the peace which faith could give. 

And even here in Africa the saints held 
sway; their immortal memories showed how 
weak human nature could triumph so com- 
pletely over the flesh that they could imitate 
closely, and with so much earthly perfection, 
the example set them by their Master. And 
near the Figure of the Crucified was there not 
always the Mother of Sorrows ready to inter- 
cede and pray ? 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


361 


Isidoro’s knowledge of St. Augustine, of his 
work and writings, as well as of his life, 
gathered from books as well as from art, had 
surprised her not a little. She felt all at once 
that she was ignorant, that she had lived al- 
ways with closed eyes behind shut doors, hear- 
ing only idle talking of dress, and plays, and 
entertainments and amusements of all kinds, 
mingled with a liberal supply of gossip; dis- 
cussions as to whether Sophy should have a 
blue hat or a black one, or if ermine would suit 
Milly’s complexion better than sable? She 
could never remember hearing the Princess 
mention clothes except to recommend her to 
wrap up warmly for her journey! Only her 
music had ever taken her into a different 
atmosphere from the futile and worldly one of 
her aunt and cousins. 

“Felix would have liked being here,” she 
thought, and a half- jealous pang struck her 
as she remembered how much more he would 
have had in common with the Princess and 
Isidoro, than with herself. If he were to come 
back. . . . But he would never do so. She 
had. sent him away bankrupt and outcast into 
an oblivion from which no sound nor sight of 
him could penetrate to her. She felt abso- 
lutely comfortless. Then her lips moved in 


362 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


prayer. She hardly realized the words she 
was saying. “Mother of Christ — Mother of 
Divine Grace — Pray for me. . . 

It was her first conscious prayer to the 
Mother of God. 


CHAPTER IV 


T he Villa Saida stood close to the great 
cork forests that form a deep fringe, al- 
most unbroken, near the coast of the Mediter- 
ranean, between Bone and Philippeville, and 
indeed, intermittently along the whole of the 
Algerian coast of North Africa. Fire has 
destroyed the forest in certain places, devastat- 
ing whole tracts of it, but it continues to form 
a wild, wooded and always beautiful strip of 
the always beautiful Tell. It is the land of 
which Tasso wrote not too flatteringly: — 

“Trascorser poi le piagge ove i Numidi 
Menar gia vita pastorale, erranti, 

Trovar Bugia ed Algieri infami nidi 
Di corsari. . . 

In front of the villa lay a wide grassy plain, 
across which ran a white road, dipping up and 
down the hollows, with cornfields and vine- 
yards stretching away on either hand. The 
plain lost itself at length at the foot of the 
mountains, which rose with superbly wooded 
heights proudly towards the blue of the Afri- 

363 


S64 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


can sky. The cork tree being of the family 
of ilex, is evergreen, except for a very short 
time in the spring of every year just before 
the demasclage* when its leaves turn yellow 
and begin to fall, in great contrast to the 
wonderful spring tints that are displayed by 
all its forest companions. The rosy stems 
of the half-stripped trees add a touch of warm 
color and remind one of the columns of 
“peach-blossom” marble in some dim old 
Italian cathedral. 

The place is perhaps best described in the 
words of Gaspard de Clairville, who thus 
wrote to his fiancee in France, when he had 
gone thither to prepare it for her: — 

“I have called it Villa Saida,” he wrote in 
his finely-pointed French handwriting; “Saida 
is an Arab word, meaning happy. And we 
shall be happy here — do not doubt it — until 
the end. It is a great Moorish-looking house 
— I wanted that ; one can never really improve 
upon local architecture; those who have gone 
before have learned what is best suited to the 
needs of the country. It is white as snow 
with that dense whiteness which looks like a 
blot when we see it upon dome and koubba. 
So the villa stands conspicuously out from its 

* Process of stripping the cork from the trees. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


365 


delicate gray-green framework of cork trees, 
and the silvery tracery of the olives which look 
here even more beautiful than they do under 
a Tuscan sky. It is because I think they are 
allowed to grow tall and to spread out their 
beautiful branches. And the wind blows 
freshly here, full of the salt of the sea, which 
cannot be more than fifteen kilometres from 
here. The house stands upon white arcades 
like an old Moorish palace, and it runs round 
three sides of a courtyard in the middle of 
which there is a fountain. Orange trees grow 
there, and lemons hung with bright and shin- 
ing fruit, and to-day the air is filled, almost 
drenched, with the perfume of those bridal 
flowers. Here we are reckless and gather 
them, and so the house is full of their match- 
less sweetness. For it is May here now, and 
the Tell, the old, old Tell, is renewing its 
youth, and the country is a wilderness of vivid 
blossom, carpeting field and forest with violet, 
and blue, and pink, and silver, and gold. I 
have seen it often before, but the sight of those 
valleys filled with golden gorse makes me want 
to fling myself on my knees like Linnaeus and 
thank God for the wonder of it all. When 
you are here it will be perfect. In another 
month I return to France for our wedding. 


366 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

Surely the gray walls of St. Roch will never 
have gazed upon such a happy couple as we 
shall be that day. And the Tell is waiting 
for you, Gabrielle, with both arms outstretched 
to enfold you in all its beauties. The loggia 
is fringed with wistaria — sweet mauve bunches 
honeyed and fragrant where the bees feast all 
day long, and across the roof there is a tangle 
of bougainvillea in full blossom. It is, I think, 
the brightest child of all the tropics, and even 
here it is strangely vivid, and embraces my 
white walls with its proudly-flung clusters. 
The date-palms give quite an Oriental aspect 
to the Villa Saida, and to-day the vineyards 
are filled from end to end with the pale gold 
of their young leaves glistening in the sun- 
light. The storks have begun to build on an 
acacia tree a little way from the house; they 
have to my thinking a strangely Japanese 
aspect when they fly low above the cornfield 
and wade breast deep in the wheat. Every 
day from my window I can see the sun rise 
above the hill called Koudiat M’Chati, with 
the sky iris-hued as if colored with some deli- 
cate fairy pencil. And every night he sinks 
to rest in a glory of scarlet and gold behind 
the Hill of the Robber’s Cave.” 

His dream was never realized, for just when 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


367 


he was preparing to return to France he fell 
a victim to fever, having inhabited the villa 
for little more than a month. 

“Welcome to the Villa Saida,” said Nico- 
lette. 

It was at the close of a short December day, 
when the automobile drove swiftly up to the 
house, bearing the little party from Bone. 

Nicolette stood upon the terraced drive. 
Behind her the sky was almost somber after 
the vivid winter sunset, deeply imbued with 
dim purple hues. The shadows were falling 
upon the vineyards, stripped and bare with 
only occasional flashes of scarlet. Her chil- 
dren were with her standing one on each side 
of their mother; they made a charming little 
group. Their hands clung together. The 
elder, a boy, was dark and slight, the girl was 
fat with bunches of yellow curls tied with blue 
ribbons. The Princess kissed Nicolette, and 
then stooped down to kiss the children. 

“How much they have grown!” she said. 

“Odette, darling, say ‘how do you do’ to your 
aunt,” adjured Nicolette, for her small daugh- 
ter was still inclined to be shy, and tried to 
hide her fair round face in her mother’s skirts. 
But little Gaspard went forward eagerly and 


368 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


kissed the hands of the Princess and Evodia, 
with a grave solemn courtesy soon to be dis- 
pelled by Isidoro, who seized him and swung 
him abruptly high above his head. This 
maneuver elicited shrieks of joy from both 
children, and served effectually to break the 
ice. 

They all went indoors, mounting a steep 
staircase to the first floor, where all the rooms 
were arranged in suites of apartments round 
the courtyard, each bedroom having its own 
balcony commanding beautiful views of the 
country. 

“Pierre has gone to Clementville for the 
day,” Nicolette explained. “Do not please 
excite the children too much, Isidoro, or they 
will never go to sleep to-night. Keep still, 
Gaspard,” she added laughing, for the boy 
was sitting on Isidoro’s shoulder shrieking with 
delight and pulling at the young man’s dark 
locks. “Pierre was distressed that he could 
not be here to welcome you, but he had some 
business he was obliged to see to. Is not the 
weather lovely? In the middle of the day it 
is really quite hot. And did you ever see such 
a palace as poor Gaspard built here? It goes 
to my heart to think he lived here just one 
month — one month, imagine, to yourself!.— 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


369 


and then died. Does it not seem a pity? 
And his letters were wonderful — he was rather 
a poet you know. Poor little Gabrielle, be- 
fore she went away to the Convent to become 
a Soeur Blanche, made what she called a de- 
tachment of some of the letters, and gave them 
to me — she said they were too beautiful to be 
destroyed, and they showed how happy he was 
here, poor boy!” 

They had by this time reached the drawing- 
room which was furnished in half-Moorish, 
half-French fashion. It was a splendid 
spacious room, and the de Clairvilles had been 
wise in not crowding it with furniture, thus 
displaying in all their beauty the fine Algerian 
carpets, and old Persian hangings, and delicate 
Eastern embroideries. 

“I am so very glad you made up your mind 
to come, Miss Essex,” Nicolette said, turning 
to Evodia, “I am sure you will like it here, 
and I don’t think you will find it dull. One 
is never bored in a new country where every- 
thing is strange and novel. We can make 
plenty of excursions while this fine weather 
lasts. In January they tell me it is nearly 
always wet and rather cold. We have our 
little chapel here,” she said, turning to the 
Princess. “Our priest is already installed. 


370 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


He is a poor exile whom Pierre found last 
summer in London literally starving; he was 
delighted at the prospect of coming here. We 
are fifteen kilometres from the nearest village 
— you must have passed it — it is called Sidi- 
Mesrour. So I shall not permit you to go 
away, Isidoro — you must stay and amuse us. 
There are no lions left here now, I am thank- 
ful to say; they have all disappeared since the 
great fire about twenty years ago. Imagine 
to yourself, dear Aloisia, they used to catch 
them in the old days and despatch them to 
Rome to eat the Christians!” And Nicolette 
threw up her small white hands with a gesture 
of horror, and shuddered. 

“Gaspard and I will go and look for them 
together,” said Isidoro calmly, taking the 
boy’s hand. “I am sure we should find one 
in those immense forests!” 

“Ahmed says he heard a hyena last night,” 
said Gaspard, looking up with dark eager 
eyes. “Cousin Isidoro, do you think a hyena 
could eat a boy — a big boy of — of my size?” 

“No, but I am sure a panther could. We 
will go out together and kill a panther — that 
would be great fun,” said Isidoro, “and then 
Maman could have the skin made into a fine 
rug!” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


371 


“You would have to shoot it,” said Gaspard: 
* m y gun is far too small. I should sit up in 
a tree and watch you like the Arabs do. I 
should be afraid to come down. I am so little 
still — compared to a panther,” he added al- 
most apologetically. 

“Well Ahmed shall come, too,” said Isidoro, 
“to take care of us both.” 

“Ahmed was with our poor cousin when he 
wandered all those months in the Sahara,” 
said Nicolette; “he is a wonderful person, and 
is already beginning to attach himself to 
Pierre. We have several Arab servants here, 
Aloisia. What do you think of my electric 
lamps? They are old Moorish ones, and the 
colored glass makes the room so charming, like 
a dim mysterious Eastern bazaar where you 
might hope to meet Aladdin.” 

She switched on the light and the room im- 
mediately glowed with the ruby and emerald 
and amber light diffused through the colored 
glass. The effect was, as Nicolette had said, 
quite charming, and the little Tunisian tables 
heavily encrusted with mother-of-pearl, shone 
as if with precious stones in the midst of this 
shadowed radiance. 

“And now you must be tired, so when we 
have had tea I shall show you your rooms. 


372 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

Yours is a very pretty one. Miss Essex, and 
there is a dear little sitting-room for you too. 
I have put a piano into it, as I thought you 
might feel lonely without one. But we shall 
hear you sing here also, I hope, for Pierre is 
crazy about music, and we all know how fond 
Isidoro is of it.” 


CHAPTER V 


E vodia stood at her window and gazed, as 
it seemed to her, into the very heart of 
the African night. The sky was clear; there 
was no moon, but the stars were shining with 
their magical southern splendor. The long 
belt of mountains looked like gray shadowy 
sentinels asleep under the stars that seemed to 
hang so close to their summits, for the horizon 
was curiously clear. The date-palms were 
etched in sharp silhouette with monstrous 
feathers for leaves; sometimes a little breeze 
stirred, and the fronds moved and creaked 
with an eerie sound. The road could be seen 
lying pale and colorless, winding ribbon-wise 
across the plain till it was lost in the forest 
brushwood; it was guarded by twin rows of 
ash trees, and on one side there was a hedge 
of Barbary fig trees that seemed to hold out 
grotesque, fingerless hands in dumb appeal. 
Afar on the hills a solitary light gleamed and 
flickered; it must be, she thought, the light of 
some lonely farm. And then she began to 
realize how great and lonely this Africa, to 

373 


374 


PRISONERS' YEARS 


which she had come as a stranger, must be. 
She knew so little of it except what she had 
read of the desert in “The Garden of Allah” 
and one or two novels. She had neither read 
nor heard much about the wide regions of the 
Tell, strange and mysteriously beautiful as 
the desert itself. Of all the great continents 
Africa holds perhaps what is still most savage, 
most unexplored, most remote from civiliza- 
tion. Even the beautiful and cultivated Tell 
— cultivated so assiduously by the French 
colonist, so rich in its fertile soil, in its abun- 
dant fruits, its vineyards and cornfields and 
orange orchards, a land that veritably flowed 
with oil and wine and honey, even this land 
had something in it of savage and profound 
desolation. Wild beasts roamed at will in the 
great tracts of forest that lay like vast blotted 
shadows on the mountains that were clothed 
everywhere with a jungle of low and thick 
brushwood. Even now as she listened the 
shrill acrid bark of a jackal fell upon her ear, 
echoing across the silence. Then from some 
hidden gourbi a song stole forth upon the night 
air accompanied by the low soft fluting of a 
gezbah, the dull throbbing of a tom-tom, which 
to her fascinated ears seemed as the beating 
of a human heart. This was the song she 


PRISONERS' YEARS 


375 


heard coming with wistful dreamy montonous 
music from the forest fastness: — 

“Little Dove, O little Dove, 

Thou hast scorched me — thou hast killed me! 

Thou hast made my heart sick — 

Nothing can heal me. 

My heart is dead, and I have buried it — 

I buried it in the Desert. 

The day I buried it no one was present. 

I was alone, and no one mocked at me — 

I was alone, my burnous covered my head — 

I covered my head and I wept.” 

A land of strange people, of weird, un- 
earthly music, so melancholy, so passionate, 
with its noiseless-footed Arabs, turbaned, 
burnoused, with the dark inscrutable eyes, the 
proud stately movements of the Oriental. A 
conquered people who have shown themselves 
able to fight fearlessly and fiercely without any 
dread of death, and who were now content 
since they believed that Allah had willed the 
Roumi should inhabit their land. A people 
who held life lightly, who had little regard for 
property, who were swift to stab and slay. 

A great grove of eucalyptus trees rustled 
close to the house, their faint and pungent 
aroma seemed to add another odor to this 
strange night, mingling with the scent of the 
dew-drenched earth. Evodia thought the 
stars in that high vaulted sky were the most 


376 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


wonderful she had ever seen — more wonderful 
even than those she had watched from the train 
as it ran close to the Mediterranean. They 
shone with a polished and luminous gold ; they 
indeed declared the Glory of God, they seemed 
to be witnesses of His splendor, of the majesty 
and beauty of His Heaven. She felt like an 
earth-worm before their serene calm beauty. 
“Cceli enarrant gloriam Dei et opera manuum 
ejus annuntiat firmamentum . . . She fell 
under the magic spell of Africa which the 
French call so well la folie d'Afrique. Her 
mind went back suddenly, inconsequently, to 
her aunt’s house in Curzon Street. She saw 
the lofty, luxurious rooms that yet would seem 
entirely insignificant beside the white, cold, 
empty spaciousness of the Villa Saida. She 
could not now recover that London atmosphere, 
the rumble and stir of ceaseless traffic, the ever- 
lasting whistling for cabs and taxis, the street 
cries, the echo of falling hoofs. The vast 
silence of the Tell enveloped her, wrapping her 
round, silences that were broken only by the 
yelping of jackals, the wistful wizard music 
of that strange song which had suddenly died 
away. She would have liked to capture that 
music, at once primitive and profoundly ex- 
pressive, its very formlessness attracted her. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


377 


She could hardly now believe that she was the 
same Evodia who, only a few months before, 
had looked out into that London night, dim 
with uncertain umbers and purples, a place of 
blurred outlines and indefinitely misty skies. 
She was as different from that sad woman 
as this African night with its appealing 
beauty, its sharp outlines, its serene and star- 
filled twilight, was different from that London 
night. She saw everything with new eyes; for 
the first time she realized that she could look 
upon the figure of her lover from another 
standpoint and with a changed but vividly in- 
creased sympathy. He was the Felix to whom 
this Catholic atmosphere would be acceptable. 
He would have found favor with her new 
friends; they would have thought him charm- 
ing and sympathetic. It was the first time 
that she had thought of Felix in this way. 
She saw how much, how very much, her own 
narrow life had contributed to her decisive, ill- 
considered action in sending him away. A 
prisoner in that worldly house, outwardly 
free, yet fast bound by the sentiments and 
opinions of those around her, she had behaved 
in the way they approved, she had done what 
was expected of her. Her pride had forbidden 
her to marry a man at whom the world mocked, 


378 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


because he had made forfeit of all in this reck- 
less way. She had seen in his religion only a 
thing that had made an impassable barrier be- 
tween them, to which he had, with astonishing 
weakness, submitted. And now her view of 
him was insensibly changing. Her love for 
him, though deeply wounded, had never been 
destroyed. And she could see now that there 
had been something heroic in his conduct. 
That instead of being weak he had been im- 
mensely firm. It would have been so easy to 
delay, to procrastinate; every motive must 
have urged him to do both. And he had done 
neither; he had gone straight towards the goal 
that seemed to him the right one. She saw, 
too, all at once, as if with a fresh vision, how 
entirely, how significantly she had failed him. 
How unworthy she had been of his love, of his 
trust in her. She had not tried to understand 
him when he came to her that evening full of 
his heavy loss — of his great gain. She put 
aside the fact that those weeks of unexplained 
and protracted absence had sown the deadly 
seeds of mistrust and jealousy in her heart. 
His coming to her had been the beginning — 
rather it had been the end of an unendurable 
tension — the last straw. He had been drifting 
from her; she had often been forced to won- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


379 


der if he had really cared. Yes — she could 
make these excuses for herself, his conduct had 
justified them. It all seemed so long ago that 
she could regard it with a certain impartiality. 
Her heart had accused him — long before that 
interview — of a certain diminution of affection. 
The shadow not bigger than a man’s hand — 
the rift within the lute. Had she been too ex- 
acting? — had she required of love that it 
should keep its white radiance undimmed, 
retaining always a certain divine unchange- 
ableness, forgetting that she was asking an 
immutability not of earth? The heights of hu- 
man happiness may be touched, but the pilgrim 
cannot sojourn there. The flaming sword — 
the gates of Eden opened and then closed for- 
ever — this is the necessary discipline to purge 
the soul that yet too often has the happiness of 
never awakening from its first lovely dream. 

Evodia held out her hands to the African 
sky, to the illimitable star-lit spaces, to the 
gray mountains lying asleep under them, and 
cried his name aloud, Felice. Then, half 
ashamed, she closed the window and went back 
to the fire. She stirred the olive logs; they 
blazed a little, and a whiff of aromatic smoke 
puffed out. 

Villa Saida. — She felt as if a certain 


380 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


emotion attached itself to this beautiful 
dwelling. The man who had built it had done 
so for his intended bride. But he had died 
here, after spending a few short weeks in it, 
almost on the eve of his intended return to 
Paris to be married. He had meant to be 
happy here, and God had simply frustrated 
him. And the girl was a White Sister, work- 
ing somewhere in complete obscurity — the ob- 
scurity that a religious order bestows upon 
each member of its community — perhaps far 
away in the desert. She had never even seen 
the Villa Saida — the monument of his love for 
her. Evodia remembered what Nicolette had 
told her about the letters — that she had made 
a detachment of them because they were too 
beautiful to be destroyed, and had given them 
back to Gaspard’s cousin. It seemed almost 
sacrilegious to come and live here, to laugh and 
talk and be merry and foolish, remembering 
the tragedy that hung over the place. She 
could not help thinking of this other girl, prob- 
ably little older than herself, whom death had 
rendered solitary. Supposing death had come 
between herself and Felix, she would have re- 
belled against this frustration of their love, but 
death had not come between. Whatever 
Felix had done, it was she who had dealt the 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


381 


final blow — it was she who had refused to 
marry him, it was she who had sent him away. 
She saw now how careless she had been of the 
gift that God had given her — the gift of love. 
She had flung it quite carelessly aside. It was 
a gift that came, of course, to a great many 
women, but not to all, and perhaps to few in 
as great a measure as it had been bestowed 
upon herself. She had made no effort to keep 
it. And she knew now that it would never 
come again in quite the same way — never with 
that first passionate freshness, that same meas- 
ure of lavishness. Love can indeed come more 
than once to the same heart, but it is never the 
same love, it has a different aspect, it is touched 
by many things — by memory and experience. 

Evodia stooped again and stirred the olive 
logs to a new blaze. As she was getting into 
bed she noticed a little holy water stoup hang- 
ing above it. She dipped her finger into it, 
and found that it was filled with holy water. 
She crossed herself, as she had seen the Prin- 
cess do, and got into bed. The little action 
had soothed her, and she fell asleep. 


CHAPTER VI 


T he sun was already high in the heavens 
when Hortense came to call her, bring- 
ing a tray with coffee and rolls, and delicious- 
looking pale honey. She threw open the win- 
dows on to the balcony, and the morning air, 
fresh, invigorating, crisp, yet tempered with 
the sunlight, streamed into the room. 

“Mass is to be at nine o’clock to-day,” 
Hortense informed her; “it is an hour later 
than usual, because it was feared that Madame 
la Princesse might need additional repose after 
her journey.” 

Evodia received the information in silence. 
She had only just awakened to the fact that 
this was Sunday, and that all the French 
household would, of obligation, attend Mass 
in the little chapel. 

Hortense looked at her a little awkwardly. 
“Will — will mademoiselle go to Mass?” she 
inquired, with some hesitation. 

Evodia suddenly made up her mind that she 
would go. Her reason was quite clear; she 
did not want the Arab servants to think that 

382 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 383 

she, an Englishwoman, was indifferent to the 
Christian Sunday. She had always heard 
that outwardly they were extremely particular 
about the practice of their own religion, their 
fasts, which were long and severe, their prayers 
five times during the day. She did not wish 
to scandalize them. She felt, and rightly, 
that they would not understand that she, a 
Protestant, did not share the religious beliefs 
and practices of the Catholics. 

“I shall go,” she said briefly; “have you 
found out where the chapel is? I think you 
had better come and show me the way at five 
minutes before nine.” 

“The chapel is outside the house, but only 
a few steps,” said Hortense, who somehow 
looked immensely relieved at her young mis- 
tress’s decision. “I shall come and tell made- 
i moiselle when it is time to go.” 

Evodia drank her coffee and ate the rolls, 
and then began to dress. She felt rather ex- 
cited at the prospect of going to Mass for the 
first time. In Italy she had always refused 
to go, but now there seemed no way of escape, 
and a certain loyalty to the mere profession 
of Christianity conquered all her scruples on 
the point. Yet she felt a little ashamed that 
the Princess and Isidoro should see her in the 


384 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


chapel. Afterwards she would explain her 
motives to them. 

“Mademoiselle has no veil,” said Hortense 
when she returned; “all the other ladies will 
wear veils.” 

“Never mind — I can put on a hat,” said 
Evodia. 

She wore a dress of gray cloth; her hat too 
was gray, with great plumes in it. Hortense 
looked at her with appreciation. Yes — the 
French ladies were very chic, but few could 
look so completely distinguee as mademoiselle 
she reflected, with a sigh of satisfaction. 

Hortense led the way to the chapel. It was 
a small, white building, heavily shaded by 
palms and great orange and citron trees hung 
with fruit. The morning was perfect, and the 
fresh air from the mountains seemed to put 
new life into Evodia. 

Mauresque in appearance like the house, the 
chapel had a small dome, such as is seen upon 
the koubbas of Algeria — the tombs of the saints 
and Marabouts of Islam. It was of that daz- 
zling whiteness that the mosque so frequently 
displays, and which is often so brilliantly out- 
lined against the stainless, deep sapphire of 
the sky. 

Within it was dark; there was a faint odor 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


385 


of spent incense, and the white flowers upon 
the altar gave forth an almost stupefying 
scent. Evodia knelt down near the door upon 
an empty prie-dieu; she bowed her head, and 
hid her face in her hands. When she looked 
up she saw that two candles burned one oil 
each side of the altar, and a third was placed 
near the missal, so that the priest could see to 
read. He had just come in, and was stand- 
ing vested in white before the altar, and, to her 
surprise, Isidoro accompanied him, and was 
kneeling beside him. Before the altar hung 
a beautiful old lamp of fine damascene work; 
its red light glowed and flickered through the 
gloom. Evodia could see, now that her eyes 
had become accustomed to the obscurity, that 
al] the French servants were present, the maids, 
nurses, valet, and others of the household. 
Nicolette was in front with her boy and girl, 
one on each side of her, and beyond, to the 
right, knelt the Princess and Pierre de Clair- 
ville. She could hear Isidoro making the re- 
sponses in Latin in a clear voice. The priest 
was a young man; he wore a dark beard, and 
his head was tonsured. She was irresistibly 
reminded of Father Antony. There was the 
same expression in the eyes — a wistful look, 
eager, yet full of a fierce consuming zeal, but 


386 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


he was a taller, more robust-looking man. 
Evodia thought she had never seen Isidoro 
look so grave and recollected. It fascinated 
her to watch him; his actions were filled with 
a kind of serious dignity; she never seemed 
to have realized before that he was such a good 
Catholic, fervent and devout. She re- 
membered what he had said to his mother so 
recently when they stood before the altar of 
St. Augustine and St. Monica in the Cathedral 
at Hippone. Yes — he had the faith — that 
mysterious grace by which Felix had been 
swept off his feet. Now she could see that 
Isidoro lifted the great missal, and carried it 
to the other side of the altar, genuflecting again 
as he passed the Tabernacle. All present 
stood up, and Evodia noticed that they crossed 
themselves upon forehead, lips, and breast. 
Even the little children performed this slight 
action. She did not understand much of what 
went on; she felt troubled at not hearing all 
that the priest was saying, but the quietness, 
the reverent demeanor of those around her, 
struck her forcibly. Just in front of her 
Hortense was praying silently ; her lips moved, 
and she was slipping a brown rosary between 
her fingers. At intervals a bell rang, and for 
some time every one knelt with bowed heads 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


387 


and hidden faces. It was a very solemn mo- 
ment, and Evodia knew enough of the Catholic 
religion to know that the Consecration had 
taken place, and that to these Catholics that 
which had been bread and wine upon the altar 
was now Bread and Wine no more. She 
heard the priest recite the Lord’s Prayer quite 
audibly in Latin, Isidoro only saying the final 
words, “sed libera nos a malo ." 

Presently she saw Nicolette and the Princess 
rise from their knees and approach the altar 
rails; they were followed by Pierre and most 
of the servants. She could hear Isidoro’s 
voice reciting rapidly a Latin prayer ; some of 
the words were familiar to her, and his clear, 
musical voice sounded with great distinctness : 
“Mea culpa . . . me a culpa . . . me a maxima 
culpa . . As he said them she saw that he 
struck his breast with his hand three times. 
The sight of those kneeling figures touched 
her heart with something like pain. All her 
thoughts of the previous night rushed back 
to her mind. She felt how greatly these peo- 
ple would blame her for her action — as greatly 
perhaps as Lady Beaufoy had praised her. 
And she thought of the kneeling Cardinal in 
the Duomo at Genoa — kneeling and entreat- 
ing for the absolution which the Italians say 


388 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


he has never yet received. And what peni- 
tent more sorely needed absolution than 
she? 

She did not see the Princess until it was 
nearly time for luncheon, when she came and 
tapped lightly at her door. 

“I came to see if you were very tired,” said 
the Princess. “Did you sleep well, your first 
night in the Villa Saida?” 

“So well,” said Evodia, kissing her. “And 
I went to the chapel for Mass. I thought 
I would tell you why. I did not want the 
Arabs here to think I was careless about Sun- 
day. They know that you all go to church on 
Sunday — that you are obliged to go.” 

“I think you were quite right — I am glad 
you came,” said the Princess, quietly. 

They went along the balcony and entered 
the drawing-room, where they found all the 
family assembled, including Isidoro and the 
children. 

Little Gaspard was loudly announcing : 

“When I am a little older I shall learn to 
serve Mass like Cousin Isidoro. Odette says 
that she will too, but I tell her that is all non- 
sense — girls can never do that! She cried at 
first. You see how stupid it is to be a girl 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


389 


— one is not allowed to do anything! Poor 
Odette/’ he added compassionately. 

Odette hid her round, fat face in her moth- 
er’s skirt. 

“Pere Francis says that he will soon be- 
gin to teach me,” Gaspard continued. 

“Yes — but you will have to be a very good 
boy,” said his mother, “only very good boys 
are allowed that privilege!” 

Pere Francis laid his hand on the boy’s 
dark head. 

“If you make progress with your catechism, 
you shall begin to learn soon. Let us see — 
how old are you now, Gaspard? Nearly six? 
That is already a great age, is it not?” And 
he smiled. 

Pierre de Clairville turned presently to 
Evodia. “There is a compatriot of yours liv- 
ing about ten kilometres from here, made- 
moiselle — farther in the forest, near one of the 
many places which are called Ras-el-Ma in 
this country. His name is Mr. Smith — at 
least that is what he calls himself. But I am 
told that many of your countrymen adopt this 
name when they go abroad mysteriously! 
This man is very mysterious — he lives the life 
of a hermit.” 


390 


PRISONERS 5 YEARS 


“Yes, and I wrote to him and asked him to 
come and dine,” said Nicolette, “but he re- 
fused. M. le Cure at Sidi-Mesrour tells me 
he is charming, but I have never yet seen him.” 

“I have seen him two or three times,” said 
Pierre; “he is young — about thirty perhaps, 
and he bought some land out here a few months 
ago, but I don’t suppose he is making much 
out of it. He seems badly off, but now they 
tell me he has got the secretaryship of some 
mining company out Batna way, so he will 
have something to live upon.” 

They all went in to breakfast. Evodia 
could not help feeling a little interested in this 
mysterious countryman of hers; she wondered 
who he could be. 

“I have an interest in those mines,” con- 
tinued Pierre, “so I may perhaps come across 
him again, and I shall try and persuade him 
to come and see us.” 

“Perhaps he has fled from justice,” said 
Isidoro, calmly; “if so, you may be harbor- 
ing a felon unawares. You had better be care- 
ful, Nicki!” 

“You must eat this, Miss Essex,” he said, 
turning to Evodia; “you say that I always 
know what one must eat. This is the cous- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


391 ; 


cous of which so much has been written. The 
Arabs eat it with wooden spoons, and you must 
only drink water with it. Is it not strange 
stuff? It has the aroma of the East.” 

Nicki tried some and put down her spoon 
in disgust. “I don’t like it — we’ve never had 
it before,” she said; “it is horrid and scented.” 

“Try again, Nicki,” he adjured her; “it is 
an acquired taste; finish what you have, and 
you will want some more !” 

“Ever since we left Albaro, Isidoro has 
been trying to make us eat all kinds of weird 
things,” said the Princess. “Do not let him 
victimize you, Nicki — he is getting terribly 
domineering !” 

Isidoro went on eating quite unconcernedly. 
Nicolette made another attempt. “I don’t 
dislike it nearly so much now — I shall finish 
it! Are these little hard things nuts?” 

He nodded. “Aren’t they quite delicious? 
I should like to eat it with my fingers like an 
Arab!” 

In a moment he added: “I think I shall be- 
come an Arab. I think a turban would suit 
me. What dost thou say, Gaspard — wouldst 
thou like to see thy cousin dressed in a burnous 
and a turban?” 


392 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“I think you would look like an Arab,” re- 
plied Gaspard, gravely; “you are so tall and 
dark.” 

“Thou wouldst also become a Mussulman, 
my son?” inquired the Princess, who had not 
been able to persevere with her cous-cous. 

“Ah, that needs consideration! It is the 
dress that at present attracts me. But in the 
matter of wives, I should find one sufficient!” 

“You can easily get rid of them if you are 
an Arab,” said Pierre; “it costs but six francs 
to tear up the contract and obtain a divorce. 
But a provident Arab will keep on the old 
wife when he takes a young one, so that she 
may continue to look after his house and cook 
his cous-cous in the way he desires!” 

“What a horrid system,” said Nicki; “I 
should rebel if I were the old wife.” 

“It would be no use. The Arab woman does 
not rebel. It is very simple. If she is not 
obedient, she gets a beating — that is under- 
stood. So it is easier and less painful perhaps 
to obey. The Arab wife is therefore obedient 
and faithful. These qualities are not natural 
to her, but she invariably learns them.” 

“Poor things!” said Nicolette; “I wonder 
they don’t all become suffragettes.” 

“In the final appeal to brute force^” said 


PRISONERS' YEARS 


Pierre, dryly, “the man will always be in the 
ascendant.” 

“They must have a wretched life,” said his 
wife. 

“I don’t believe they are really unhappy,” 
said Pierre; “it is a mistake to awaken them — 
I don’t think they are ready. Read Loti’s 
“Desenchantees,” and for the other side of the 
picture, Magali Boisnard’s “Les Endormies” 
— you will get a pretty good view of the Mus- 
sulman woman. In Turkey she has a little 
more chance of emancipation, as she is bound 
to participate in the new movement, and she 
is also more highly educated. But out here 
it is a different matter, and she can hardly 
be in a more complete state of slavery than as 
the wife of an Arab peasant. The Kabyle’s 
lot is far happier — she goes unveiled — she has 
more liberty — I do not know if it is better for 
her soul.” 

“Pierre has evidently been studying the 
question,” said Isidoro, “but it seems to me 
that if you shut up a woman, use her as a 
beast of burden and beat her if she doesn’t 
obey, you simply degrade her, and if she is 
happy and contented in such a lot, so much the 
worse for her!” 

“Oh, there is a story told of an Arab woman 


394 


PRISONERS' YEARS 


who proudly displayed her bruises to a female 
friend as a witness of the strength of her hus- 
band,” said Pierre, carelessly. 

“What a savage country!” said Nicki, ris- 
ing from her seat and lifting the little Odette 
down from hers. “Miss Essex will think she 
is living among barbarians. Still, I suppose, 
there are gloomy horrible things under the sur- 
face everywhere!” And with this consoling 
reflection she led the way into the loggia, where 
coff ee and cigarettes were brought by Ahmed, 
whose gentle, rather worn face seemed indica- 
tive of faithfulness and kindness rather than 
of cruelty. 


CHAPTER VII 


A few days later the whole party from 
the Villa Saida, with the exception of 
the children, went to Constantine for a couple 
of days, Nicolette having pathetically de- 
clared her inability to exist without shops any 
longer. She had already ransacked the little 
bazaars of Sidi-Mesrour, and had found little 
to buy except picture post-cards and the big 
Arab water- jars, with which she professed her- 
self to be entranced. 

They arrived at Constantine in the evening, 
and little could be seen from the train except 
a galaxy of lights, stretching up to the very 
summit of the hill, almost vying with the stars 
that stooped above them in brilliancy. Their 
carriage, drawn by two swift ponies, jingling 
with bells, went quickly through the busy, 
lighted streets to the hotel. It was nearly 
time for dinner, and by the time they had all 
assembled in the long narrow dining-room, 
they found the meal already in progress. 
There were not a great many people. In the 

middle of the room a party of English tour- 
395 


396 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


ists were hurrying over their dinner, bustling 
the rather lethargic waiters into an unwonted 
activity. At another table two angular mid- 
dle-aged Englishwomen, with plainly dressed 
red hair, their tall, bony forms encased in suits 
of gray tweed, surveyed the scene through 
their lorgnettes with an air of conscious and 
convinced superiority. An evidently newly 
married French couple sat at another table, 
the man regarding adoringly his charmingly 
pretty little wife, who was excessively elegant 
in a gray chiffon dress. She wore a bandeau 
of gold in her black hair, which was admirably 
arranged. Some officers of the African cav- 
alry, in their pale blue uniforms, sat near the 
door, talking little. 

All eyes were turned towards the de Clair- 
ville party as they came into the room. The 
Princess was always a striking-looking figure, 
with her blanched hair and brilliant dark eyes ; 
her height and graceful carriage compelled at- 
tention wherever she went. Nicolette looked, 
as always, charming and frivolous, and she 
would certainly rather have foregone her din- 
ner than eaten it attired in thick tweed. 
Evodia followed, dressed in clinging black, 
and looking extraordinarily beautiful, and Isi- 
doro and Pierre brought up the rear. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


397 


That glimpse of the very Oriental city 
through the streets of which they had driven, 
had impressed Evodia strongly. She felt an 
unwonted excitement; she could almost be- 
lieve that she was in a dream — an Arabian 
Night’s Dream. What if some strange 
genie should appear offering her new lamps 
for old? 

Isidoro took his seat between Nicolette and 
Evodia. To-night he had eyes for no one but 
his mother’s English friend, and not even for 
her could he find speech. She was beautiful 
— and he loved her — and she was not for him. 
So his mother had told him once when he had 
spoken to her half in jest about it. Now jest 
was at an end. He meant to ask her to marry 
him. Perhaps it would be to-night if he could 
find an opportunity of seeing her alone. And 
if she refused, he would not return to the Villa 
Saida — he had quite made up his mind to that ; 
he would go to Biskra — to the desert and shoot 
things. But he could not go on as he had 
been doing these last few weeks. Even his 
mother had noticed the change in him; twice 
she had asked him, with tender anxiety : “What 
is the matter with you, Isidoro?” He glanced 
under his long eyelashes at Evodia. Were 
all Englishwomen 50 cold — so unconscious? 


398 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


She had treated him in such a frank spirit of 
good comradeship. They had walked to- 
gether, driven together, played and sung to- 
gether, and she had remained absolutely un- 
conscious that he had been falling more deeply 
in love with her day by day. Once she had 
been engaged — so his mother had told him in 
confidence, and the affair had terminated un- 
happily. Had this man taught her nothing 
— nothing of the A, B, C of love that she 
should be unable to recognize it? He was al- 
ready jealous of this shadowy Felix, wdio had 
won what he could not keep — the love of this 
most beautiful, adorable woman ! 

“Nicki,” he said suddenly, for he was afraid 
some one else might say, “What is the matter 
with you, Isidoro?” if he persisted in this si- 
lence, “I think we had better go for a walk 
after dinner and have a look at the Arab 
quarter. People say it is the most unspoiled 
of all the native quarters in Algeria. And these 
places always look better at night. My 
mother will be too tired, but you and Pierre 
and Miss Essex would enjoy it.” 

Nicki yawned, and at first he was dreadfully 
afraid that she was going to refuse; but she 
was far too good-natured ever to stand in the 
way of other people’s enjoyment, though most 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


399 


willingly would she have gone to bed early in 
preference to a post-prandial promenade. 

“If Miss Essex would like a walk, I shall be 
delighted to go,” she said. “That is, of course, 
if you are not too tired?” she added, turning 
to Evodia. 

“Oh, I shall not be at all too tired,” said 
Evodia, who longed to see something of this 
strange city set so high on the African hills. 

When dinner was at an end the four sallied 
forth. It was a brilliant night. The Milky 
Way, called by the Japanese the River of 
Heaven, seemed indeed here to deserve its ten- 
der Eastern title. Its pale shining course was 
scattered with clusters of fragile gleaming 
stars. There was a moon, which made the 
shadows deep as ebony and sharply sil- 
houetted against spaces of light that were 
pure silver, luminous, effulgent. They 
strolled up the long Rue Nationale and into 
the Arab quarter, a network of narrow tortu- 
ous streets, lined with bazaars, whence faint 
crimson and emerald lights flickered uncer- 
tainly from the dark shapes of Moorish lan- 
terns. Gleaming embroideries glimmered in 
the dusk of that purple twilight. There were 
scarves covered thickly with gold or silver se- 
quins, such as might have adorned the neck of 


400 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


Zobeide — insubstantial raiment like wisps of 
pale foam. And as in Bone, they could see 
the Arabs sitting in groups within the little 
dark cafes, smoking cigarettes and drinking 
black cofF ee and playing their ceaseless games 
of cards. The brass and copper pots and 
ewers caught the reflection from the colored 
lamps, and shone with a subdued radiance. 
Silent white-clad forms passed ghost-like, 
gliding phantom-wise. 

Evodia walked with Isidoro. Above their 
heads the narrow strip of sky was sown thickly 
with stars. The silence and charm of the 
night surrounded her with a strange atmos- 
phere. And yet it was not really silent. A 
faint echo of that wizard music which she had 
heard so constantly since she came to Africa 
came fitfully to her ears, the soft throbbing 
of a flute, the dull, harsh beat of the tom-tom, 
the fragment of a song. Strange mysterious 
voices could be heard, too, in sibilant murmur. 
— an undercurrent of sound not immediately 
perceptible. And though the atmosphere was 
so novel and attractive, it held something, too, 
that was sinister and repellent, as of dark se- 
crets, deep, unsolved mysteries — the mystery 
of Eastern life, of all it holds, of all that it 
conceals. Some had penetrated it ever so 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


401 


slightly. But one could never really know it. 
The veil that hid the faces of the women 
seemed to be symbolic of its attitude. The 
Occident and the Orient can never mingle, 
however great their mutual sympathy and 
knowledge. The Orient under its aspect of 
complete simplicity is absolutely secret, abso- 
lutely hidden. Beside it the Occident, with 
an exterior suggestion of great complexity, is 
yet simple and straightforward. It hides 
nothing from the world. Islam would hide 
all ; her secrets are inviolable ; she is aloof, alert 
through all her indolence to guard the im- 
penetrability of her secrets and her mys- 
teries. It is that sense of close guarding 
which oppresses the atmosphere of Africa ; her 
music trembles and dies on the air lest 
it too should reveal anything she would fain 
hide. 

“Do you like it?” said Isidoro, suddenly. 

Alone with his beloved, he had found no 
words as yet in which to address her. To him 
she seemed to belong to the African night; 
the darkness of her hair, of her long heavily 
lashed eyes, her tall, graceful form gave her 
a half-Oriental look that seemed to make her 
fit in quite wonderfully with this Eastern city 
with its white domes and minarets. 


402 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

“I like it,” she answered, “but there is some- 
thing here that almost oppresses me.” 

There was a sudden sound of quite loud 
music, the clash of cymbals, the violent beat- 
ing of a tom-tom, then the melancholy notes 
of a gezbah came wistfully. Appealing, mo- 
notonous, rising and falling in passionate 
cadence, it seemed to form part of this warm, 
windless African night. It reminded Evodia 
of her first night at the Villa Saida, when she 
had heard the song of the nomad: 

“Little Dove, O little Dove, 

Thou hast scorched me — thou hast killed me! 

Thou hast made my heart sick. 

Nothing can heal me. 

My heart is dead, and I have buried it: 

I buried it in the desert.” 

“It oppresses you?” said Isidoro. 

“Yes — I have a feeling — an absurd one, of 
course — that it holds dark secrets — strange 
mysteries with horror in them.” 

“From end to end Africa is full of mys- 
teries,” he said. “So you feel it too?” 

“Yes— I feel it.” 

“You are not tired?” 

“No — not in the least. I feel as if I could 
walk forever!” 

They had come out upon a wide street 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


403 


through the dark, winding tunnels of the Arab 
quarter. The city of Constantine, spread 
high upon the hill, was stretched out before 
them, lit, as it seemed, from end to end by the 
hand of some genie. The lights outlined the 
shapes of street and square. Two long vivid 
rows, set parallel, shone from the French hos- 
pital; others denoted the Barracks. Above 
the town a thick wood of clustered Aleppo 
pines made a black patch against that sky 
of luminous silver. They could see the im- 
mense rift in the rocks known as the Gorge 
du Roumel, where the two cliffs stood up in 
sharp black silhouette as if they had been di- 
vided by the hand of some giant wielding a 
fabulous ax. The road showed white through 
the avenue of trees, and the lights from the 
villas that nestled among the pine woods on 
the heights looked like pale fallen stars. 

“I should like to live in Africa — I should 
like never to go away,” said Evodia, involun- 
tarily. 

Isidoro stopped short. Glancing round, he 
saw for the first time that Pierre and Nicki 
were no longer in sight. Perhaps they had 
lost them in the Arab quarter; it was possible, 
too, that Nicki had pleaded fatigue and had 
returned to the hotel. At any rate he was 


404 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

klone with Evodia, and he had made up his 
mind to speak to her. 

“I wish you would stay here,” he said, “with 
me. I want you to be my wife. We could 
make our home here in the winter, and in the 
summer we could go to Italy. That would 
be perfect.” 

They were standing on the old bridge of 
El Kantra; there were very few people about. 
Sometimes an Arab passed; here and there a 
lumbering mule cart could be seen. They 
looked down into the dizzy fissure spanned by 
the bridge. 

Evodia did not answer. His words seemed 
to stun her. She hardly was aware that he 
was holding her hands in his burning clasp. 
His face in the moonlight was pale, almost 
livid. “I love you — I love you,” he repeated 
in low, passionate tones; “let us make our 
home out here. We will have a Villa Saida 
of our own!” 

Still she did not answer; there was some- 
thing here that she could not meet with the 
same coldness and indifference with which she 
had dismissed Lord Herton. New lamps for 
old! Alas — the old lamp was still unextin- 
guished; sometimes its flame would leap still 
into a brilliance of warmth and light. Yes — 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


405 


through the silence, the irremediable darkness 
it burned on, a thing of unquenchable flame 
and dazzling undiminished radiance. 

“No,” she said, “I could not marry you. 
Your mother knows — I have told her — about 
myself. Ask her. I do like you very much. 
We have been friends, haven’t we?” she said a 
little wistfully. Were all friendships thus to 
end in this strange disturbing way? “I can 
not be your wife — I could only give you so 
little — it would not be right. It would not be 
fair to you.” She could only give him the 
same answer she had given to Lord Herton. 

“Oh,” he said, “I thought you were learning 
to forget. You seemed so happy here. I 
would teach you to love me, and we should be 
happy here — in Africa.” 

“I have not forgotten,” she said very 
quietly, but her eyes were dark with pain, 
“even I think sometimes I am learning to care 
more — to understand better. What I have 
done is irrevocable. I shall never marry.” 

There was a sad finality in her voice. Isi- 
doro released her hands; she shivered as if 
with cold. He looked down at her from his 
great height, with eyes scarcely less sad than 
her own. 

“He will come back,” he said bitterly. 


406 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“since you love him — as I should have come 
myself if I had been in his place — out of the 
very grave. I could never have been deaf to 
the sound of that voice of yours!” 

“He will not come back,” said Evodia, but 
his confident words made her heart beat more 
quickly in spite of herself, “and — it would be 
no use.” 

“You mean — you will not call- — you will not 
welcome him?” 

“I do not think I wish to call — ” 

“But if you don’t love him, you must marry 
some one else. Surely you will learn to love 
again. Oh, I should be content with so little. 
And I can make you happy!” 

She looked at him with weary eyes. “I do 
not think I shall ever love a second time. This 
has hurt me too much. It has wounded me 
more terribly than I can tell you. I have 
wanted to die so that the pain of it might 
cease. I cannot bear any more.” 

“Do you mean to say that he let you go 
at a word? That he made no effort to retain 
your love? I — I think I should have fought 
the powers of hell to keep you!” 

“He went away — he made no effort — since 
I broke off our engagement I have never heard 
one word of him. It is as if he were dead. But 


PRISONERS 5 YEARS 


407 


it was my fault. I sent him away — I forbade 
him to write. Do not let us talk about it any 
more !” 

She moved a few steps onward and then 
paused, looking down into the deep yawning 
rent that dipped into blackest darkness be- 
neath the bridge. A mule cart passed; the 
cries of the Arab drivers sounded loud and 
raucous across the silence of the night. As 
they went by the men cast curious glances at 
the tall young couple standing there side by 
side. 

She said suddenly, “This is not the way. 
We ought to go back to the hotel. Nicki will 
wonder what has become of us.” 

“Stay a few minutes longer,” he said plead- 
ingly ; “we are already so late that a little more 
cannot signify. And I — I do not know when 
I shall see you again. I am not going back 
to the Villa Saida. I made up my mind to 
go far into the desert if you refused to be my 
wife. I shall go to Biskra, and then on to 
Tougourt and to El Oued. Oh, Evodia — 
is it quite hopeless? [You are sure — quite 
sure?” 

“I am quite sure,” she said. “But your 
mother will be distressed if you go away; it is 
I who ought to go — back to London.” 


408 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“Do not leave my mother,” he said; “she 
loves to have you with her. She would have 
been happy to have you for a daughter.” 

But he turned now, and they walked back 
through the moon-flooded streets of Constan- 
tine to the hotel. When he said good-night 
to her he stooped and kissed her hand with a 
grave courtesy; the touch of his lips burned 
her. 

He tapped softly at the door of his mother’s 
room. She rose from her knees and came to 
the door to admit him. 

“Thou art late, my son,” she said quietly. 

“I have only just come in, mother dar- 
ling.” 

He came across to the open window, and 
taking up her rosary, twined it absently in his 
fingers. 

“I’ve asked her to be my wife,” he said with 
an effort; “I’ve told her I loved her. I 
thought I would speak to her myself — as that 
is the custom in England — and she has no 
parents. She — she does not love me.” His 
voice sounded harsh. 

“I was afraid — ” said the Princess, touching 
his hand softly with hers. “And it has made 
you very unhappy, my son?” 


PRISONERS' YEARS 


409 


She looked at him yearningly. She thought 
it was the first time he had ever experienced 
any deep sorrow or disappointment; she won- 
dered if it would change him. Always things 
had come so easily to her gay, careless boy. 
She put her arm round his neck; his face was 
near hers. 

“I don’t seem to realize — I can hardly tell 
you if I am unhappy — I have not had time to 
think much. We lost Pierre and Nicki and 
wandered on to the Pont El Kantra. It 
seems like a dream — I do love her,” he said 
simply, “and we could have made our home 
here, at least for part of the year since she 
likes it so much. But it is no use — this miser- 
able creature Felix comes between us. What 
can the man be made of to let her go like that, 
without making an effort to hold her? If I 
had won her, nothing but death should ever 
have come between us!” 

“I am sorry,” said his mother; “she would 
have made you a sweet wife, and I should 
have liked to have her for my daughter-in- 
law. That is saying a great deal, is it not? 
It is a pity that you met too late.” 

“So you think it is too late?” 

“I am afraid so. She is getting over the 
bitterness of her grief, and she is less prej- 


410 


PRISONERS' YEARS 


udiced against our holy religion — I think some 
day they will come together again.” 

“He is unworthy of her!” said Isidoro, vio- 
lently. 

“But, my dear, there were many things. 
He lost everything when he became a Cath- 
olic — he was really not in a position to marry; 
her aunt would have opposed such a very im- 
prudent marriage!” 

“She couldn’t have loved him,” said Isi- 
doro. 

“I think she did — and she was sore and hurt 
that he had never told her he intended to be- 
come a Catholic. Remember that she was 
living with very worldly people. Her aunt, 
Lady Beaufoy, is extremely worldly. From 
being a very brilliant match, he became prac- 
tically penniless. The change was too great 
— too sudden. I admit that she acted rashly, 
impulsively. She sent him away in her first 
moment of angry chagrin. She is very 
proud, and she will not acknowledge that she 
was in the wrong or that she has regretted her 
action. But she has suffered very much — it 
was probably the cause of that bad illness she 
had when she first came to Genoa. Isidoro,” 
she said with sudden wistfulness, “don’t let 
this hurt you too much. I am sure you must 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


411 


love her very deeply — she is so beautiful — so 
sympathetic. But I couldn’t bear you to be 
hurt.” 

“Dear mother,” he said, “you are always 
praying for sufferings for yourself, but you 
can’t bear that I should have any! I won’t 
let it hurt me — too much. I’m going off to 
the desert in a day or two, directly I’ve col- 
lected a few things — it will be better for me 
to go away. I wonder where this Felix is?” 

“Evodia does not know. She has never 
heard anything of him.” 

Isidoro rose to go. 

“Good-night, mother darling. You won’t 
mind if I go off on my wanderings again?” 

She smiled. “You will be happier. Don’t 
get lost in the desert, and don’t stay there too 
long!” 

When she was alone she went back to her 
seat by the window. The fresh, keen air from 
the African mountains touched her face with 
a rough caress. She thought that somewhere 
it must have come over the snows of a hill- 
fastness. Below she could see the street, a 
mosaic of light and shadow, across which 
moved with indolent grace the tall burnoused 
forms of the Arab men. Sometimes a fiacre 
or an automobile clattered by over the rough 


41* PRISONERS’ YEARS 

cobble-stones, and figures descended and en- 
tered the hotel. She felt very sorry for her 
son, who had failed to win Evodia. She had 
not foreseen that this would happen. When 
he had spoken lightly of falling in love with 
“this beautiful Miss Essex,” she had not 
treated it seriously. She had never dreamed 
that he would really care for Evodia — a girl 
of another race, another nation. And she had 
thought her too grave — too quiet to attract 
him. She had not felt alarmed even when 
they had spent so much time making music 
in the faded salon of her old villa on the Al- 
baro Hill. Isidoro admired her voice, and he 
had always said that he considered her beau- 
tiful, and that her type was so un-English. 
Now without a word of warning he had asked 
her to be his wdfe. For herself she could not 
have wished a better fate for him; she was sure 
that in time Evodia would become a Catho- 
lic; daily her prejudices were growing less. 
Yes — she would have liked it; she would have 
been glad to welcome this grave, charming 
English girl, the niece of her old friend, as 
her daughter-in-law. She wondered if Nicki 
had guessed anything — whether indeed she 
had purposely lost them during the evening 
walk. Ever since they had come to Africa 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


413 


she had noticed a change in Isidoro. He had 
lost something of his buoyancy, of his irre- 
pressible spirits. While at the Villa Saida he 
had contracted the habit of going for very 
long rides in the forest alone, remaining away 
for almost the whole day. He was often si- 
lent. But she had never connected these 
symptoms with a growing admiration for 
Evodia Essex. The whole thing had been an 
immense surprise to her. “I haven’t been 
careful enough,” she reproached herself. “I 
wanted to help Evodia so much that I forgot 
Isidoro. It never occurred to me that he 
would really fall in love with her. And yet 
I see that she was the very woman above all 
others to attract him. I wonder if the possi- 
bility ever suggested itself to Susan Beau- 
foy” 

She could not repress a smile at this reflec- 
tion, for she felt perfectly assured that the 
prospect would have recommended itself very 
strongly to her worldly friend. 


CHAPTER VIII 


T he train passed on its leisurely way across 
the wide plain of the African Tell to- 
wards Sidi-Mesrour. Sometimes it dipped 
into the heart of the cork forests, where aisle 
upon aisle of rosy stems, from whence the cork 
had been stripped, made avenues of soft color. 
It was a world that in the winter season 
seemed painted in delicate shades of gray and 
green. Gray and silver were the immense 
olive trees, with their huge spreading branches 
and hoary trunks; gray, too, were the slender 
trembling poplars growing along the river 
side; gray-green was the foliage of cork and 
ilex trees, the myrtle bushes, the clumps of 
arbutus that were now hung with clusters 
of ripe red strawberry fruit and masses of 
creamy scented blossom. The road ran al- 
most parallel to the railway across the plain, 
and from the windows Evodia could see the 
groups of Arabs, some walking with leisurely 
dignified steps, some riding slowly on mule or 
horse accompanied perhaps by a withered old 
crone bearing a heavy burden for her lord 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


415 


and master. Sometimes they passed little 
.white villages and farms surrounded by vine- 
yards, bare and brown, and orange orchards 
strangely beautiful with their glossy leaves 
and shining fruit. The long ranges of moun- 
tains rose far in the distance on every side as 
if guarding the plain; they glowed like great 
•jewels with little blue shadows that showed 
like creases in the hollows. Once as they 
passed through the forest Evodia saw a little 
Arab shepherd boy, his brown bare feet rest- 
ing on the tussocks of coarse grass. He smiled 
at Evodia showing his dazzling white teeth. 
Then he played a few notes on his little 
wooden gezbah ; the forest echoed with the sud- 
den plaintive melody. He looked so happy, 
like a small Pan in the midst of his flocks; 
the echo of his wizard music followed her. 
i Soon he was lost to sight behind an inter- 
vening clump of gray oleander bushes that 
showed here and there a few belated pink 
flowers in fragile clusters. 

They were returning to the Villa without 
Isidoro, who had vanished into the desert and 
had already written enthusiastic letters from 
Biskra. He was preparing for a long jour- 
ney, and was busy collecting camels, mules, 
and men. His first destination was Tou- 


416 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


gourt, and he had met an acquaintance of his 
who had decided to join him. The Princess 
did not think that either Pierre or Nicki really 
knew the reason of his sudden departure from 
Constantine, for Nicki had protested vio- 
lently when he announced his intention of 
traveling in the desert. It had always been 
the great wish of his life, he declared, to visit 
the Sahara, and he might never again have 
such an opportunity. He only remained in 
Constantine one day, during which he es- 
corted his mother dutifully to see the principal 
sights: the Mosque, the Cathedral of Our 
Lady of Seven Dolors, once a mosque be- 
fore the days of the French conquest, and the 
exquisite palace of Had j el- Ahmed. Ahmed 
Bey only occupied his lordly pleasure house 
for a few months, once as sovereign, once as 
captive, and the inscription still to be seen 
on the walls, which was addressed to him by 
his flattering courtiers, has a flavor of cynicism 
viewed in the light of after events. Their 
pious wishes that he might enjoy peace and 
felicity, long life, glory, and joys without end 
were not destined to be fulfilled. N ow converted 
into government offices and bureaux it has 
shown that no amount of officialdom can de- 
tract from its truly Oriental character, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 417 

Surely in such an Eastern palace, mysterious 
and strange, the fair Amine played her lute 
while her sister Safie sang “an air on the grief 
of absence” in so agreeable a manner that the 
Caliph and his Grand Vizier were alike en- 
chanted. Surely, too, in such a fastness as 
this, the beautiful Zobeide nightly fulfilled her 
cruel task of whipping the miserable en- 
chanted dogs (which had brought calamity to 
her and the young prince) to the bewilder- 
ment of Haroun-Alraschid, who afterwards 
made her his wife. The palace is built around 
a charming courtyard reminiscent of Italy 
with its plot of green grass so vividly emerald, 
its fragrant masses of roses and heliotrope 
blooming under the brilliant December sky. 
All round the white walls there were some 
curious frescoes, representing such scenes as 
naval battles, and towns such as Masr and 
Mecca. These had been the work of a young 
slave brought in captivity to Constantine; he 
was promised his freedom when the decora- 
tions of the palace walls were accomplished. 

They were now on their way home, for, if 
Nicki was easily bored, her appetite for shops 
and amusement was soon satisfied, and she 
longed to get back to her children. As 
Evodia was standing on the little balcony of 


418 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


the train looking out upon that beautiful for- 
est world, Pierre de Clairville came and stood 
by her side. He pointed to a lonely-looking 
house built at the foot of a hill nestling among 
the trees with a background of forest and 
mountain. “There!” he said, “that is the 
house of your compatriot, Mr. Smith — the one 
who is hiding himself. It is sufficiently 
lonely, is it not ? And he never sees a soul 
except a few employees, French and Arab, un- 
less he goes over to Sidi-Mesrour to talk to 
M. le Cure. I wish he would come and see 
us, but it impossible to persuade him.” 

Evodia could not help feeling interested in 
this mysterious Englishman who had, so to 
speak, “sunk himself in the Smiths.” There 
was something about his story that reminded 
her of Felix, and it was of Felix that she 
was thinking as she gazed across the wide 
prairie-like spaces towards that lonely house 
on the hillside. She could not help hoping 
that somewhere in the world he had been able 
to find, outcast of fortune that he was, as 
peaceful and happy and sun-filled a spot as 
this little farm of Ras-el-Ma — somewhere in 
the sunshine, among vineyards and cornfields. 
The thought gave her a sharp pang of envy. 
She remembered her own solitariness; the 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 419 

long years that seemed to stretch out empty, 
mocking, yet beckoning hands. She knew 
that she could never deliberately make a 
worldly marriage, as many women do after 
they have watched the slow dying of love, the 
perishing of the heart’s desire. Had she been 
able to do this she would have married Isi- 
doro; she had liked him very much indeed; 
they had tastes in common, and it would have 
given happiness to both his mother, whom 
she loved, and to himself. But she could 
never have faced the complete and utter re- 
nunciation of Felix, which this would have im- 
plied. Doubtless his love for her was now 
dead; she deserved, indeed, that he should 
have deliberately put all thought of her from 
him. He must have dwelt upon that side of 
her character which had shown her to him as 
worldly and self-seeking; upon, too, her un- 
willingness to face with him the poverty, the 
obscurity of his present position. Perhaps he 
had long ago taught himself to hate her with 
the slow and bitter and consuming hatred that 
sometimes succeeds a very deep and passion- 
ate love. And the thought that Felix might 
hate her, that he would try and avoid her, 
that he now no longer wished to see her, 
stabbed her with an intolerable pain. 


CHAPTER IX 


S pring came to the Tell that year with al- 
most the warmth of summer. Long 
bright days of flooding golden sunshine made 
the passage from winter so swift as to seem 
almost miraculous. The vines unfolded the 
delicate gold of their young leaves and curl- 
ing tendrils, and the little gray-blue blossoms 
began to show. In the brushwood the gorse 
was a sheet of gold, vivid and wonderful, cov- 
ering hills with a brilliant carpet that glim- 
mered from afar. The hedges of prickly pear 
were studded with small pale yellow flowers 
that clung close like limpets. Great bushes 
of white heath made ghostly clumps of blos- 
som; there were tall spikes of the wild purple 
gladiolus, thistles, crimson and blue, wild iris 
and tall pink asphodels that made a rosy glow 
upon whole tracts of the forest. As time 
went on, and May had succeeded April with 
even more lavish endowment of flower-gifts, 
field and forest became a gay and scented gar- 
den, and seemed to belong to those beautiful 
meadows of Paradise that Fra Angelico painted 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


421 


for the dancing souls. In the garden the or- 
ange trees were hung with blossoms and ripe 
fruit, the Japanese medlars showed their tiny 
soft golden balls; honeysuckle, wistaria, and 
citron filled the air with delicious scent. The 
Villa Saida, set in a world of warmth and per- 
fume, deserved its tender name. 

Upon such a scene Gaspard de Clairville 
had looked his last. He had died within sight 
of that fair landscape with its blue mountains, 
its wide-spreading sky. He must have seen 
the trees clothe themselves, as they did now, 
with plume-like foliage of tenderest emerald 
—the ash, the carob, the acacia, that made 
dainty avenues along the white road, shading 
the weird hedges of Barbary fig trees. 

Pierre Loti, in his “Roman d’un Spahi,” 
has described that passionate lavish approach 
of the African spring. It is a real renaissance, 
a prodigal flinging of flower garlands, a be- 
stowal of the fruits of the earth in bewilder- 
ing abundance. The wistaria hung from the 
walls in honeyed pendant clusters delicately 
scented and looking like insubstantial grapes; 
here and there could be seen the rarer white 
variety that is the very bridal wear of fairies 
wrought of foam and snow. The Judas trees 
showed their bright purple-pink blossoms. 


422 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


All night the soft singing of the nightingales 
could be heard from the grove of eucalyptus 
trees. The storks were building a nest on the 
top of a tall acacia tree; the loud rattling of 
their beaks added another note to that chorus 
of sounds, to the loud chirping of the cigales, 
the persistent monotonous wistful notes of the 
gezbahs played by the Arab shepherd boys, 
the fluting of the nightingales on those warm, 
still, moonlit evenings. 

“Some day, I suppose, we shall all have to 
go home,” Nicki used to say at intervals, with 
a sigh. 

So far none of the little party had made 
any attempt to move, and the Princess had de- 
termined to wait until Isidoro should return 
from his wanderings. She was a little nervous 
about his health ; he had had two bouts of fever, 
which had left him rather weak, and the heat 
in the desert was unusually great for the time 
of year. But, in truth, the de Clairvilles had 
fallen in love with the Villa Saida, and had re- 
solved to stay until the beginning of June, if 
not later. They were not going to Paris this 
year, for though Odette was much stronger, 
is was considered better for her to remain in 
the country. Evodia, who dreaded more and 
more a return to London, and the inevitable 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


423 


taking up of old threads that this involved, 
was only too thankful to accept Nicki’s re- 
peated invitation to remain. 

They were all sitting out under the shade 
of the orange-trees one morning when Pierre 
de Clairville came quickly out of the house 
looking pale and agitated. 

“There has been a disaster at Ras-el-Ma,” 
he said. “I have ordered the auto to come 
round at once and take me over there. This 
poor man Smith has been attacked and almost 
killed by the Arabs.” 

“What has happened?” cried Nicolette, 
springing to her feet and dropping her work. 

“Every one has lost his head,” said 
Pierre, impatiently: “I can’t make out 
clearly what has happened, but it seems that 
they got wind of the fact that Smith was re- 
turning from Clementville with money to pay 
his men, and they hid in the brushwood and 
shot at him as he passed. Their idea was to 
kill the horse and overpower the poor man and 
make off with his money; instead of which 
the bullet went through his arm and side. The 
horse wasn’t hit, and galloped off with the 
cart, in which poor Smith was lying, back to 
the farm. He was found in the bottom of 
the cart with a bad wound, and quite uncon- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


4M 

scious. This happened last evening between 
seven and eight, and they have only just sent 
for me.” 

“How dreadful,” said the Princess, quietly. 
“Will you not let me come with you, Pierre? 
I will get some bandages; he is sure to want 
careful nursing, poor boy.” 

“You are an angel, Aloisia,” he said; “will 
you be ready as soon as possible? I hope 
they will catch the scoundrels,” he added 
warmly. 

She was soon ready, and the auto sped 
swiftly along the hard, white, dusty road to- 
wards Ras-el-Ma. 

“I suppose he has had a doctor?” she asked, 
“and do you know who is looking after him?” 

“Yes — the doctor came out from Sidi- 
Mesrour at a late hour last night. Old 
Kassim, his faithful servant, had done what he 
could, and had stopped the bleeding in some 
fashion known only to the Arabs, who are 
clever about gun-shot wounds. It was better 
than nothing, I dare say. I’ve telephoned for 
another man from Clementville, but I’m afraid 
from all accounts there is not much chance of 
saving the poor fellow’s life.” 

“So bad as all that?” she said sorrowfully. 
“Perhaps you will be able to go on and fetch 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


425 


M. le Cure from Sidi-Mesrour since you say 
he is a Catholic?” 

As they descended near the stables of the 
little farm, an Arab came running out, and 
Pierre questioned him in French. He learned 
that there was no change in the condition of the 
wounded man. They climbed a steep path, 
and then walked across the terrace to the door. 
It was a very quiet and lonely spot. A Kabyle 
gardener was weeding the flower beds, other- 
wise there was little sign of life. Kassim 
opened the door ; he welcomed Pierre with a sor- 
rowful smile. 

“He is sleeping now, M. le Comte — the 
doctor is with him — he has given him some- 
thing to make him go to sleep.” 

He betrayed no emotion, but his face was 
grave and rather worn. 

“This way, if you please, M. le Comte. The 
room of Monsieur is here.” 

On a small wooden bed, in a darkened room, 
lay the mysterious Englishman. As the Prin- 
cess approached noiselessly, closely following 
Pierre, she obtained a good view of the 
blanched, unconscious face, so rigid now under 
the influence of the narcotic, that he might 
have been already dead. He was clean- 
shaven, and his densely black hair made a 


4 26 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


shadowed patch on the pillows. There was a 
heavy smell of drugs — of iodoform, of ether 
and chloroform. The window was open, and 
a faint odor of orange blossom was borne in 
upon the fresh mountain air. The doctor was 
sitting by the bedside ; as they entered he rose 
to greet them with a gesture enjoining silence. 
He led them both out of the room. Pierre in- 
troduced him to the Princess and explained the 
reason of her presence. 

“It is very good of you to come, Madame la 
Princesse. If you have a knowledge of nurs- 
ing it will be invaluable now.” 

“I know a little,” she replied calmly; “I 
hope to be of use.” 

“At first, I thought he was done for — that 
he could not live through last night — I thought 
the bullet had damaged the lungs, but for- 
tunately they are not touched. There has 
been a great deal of hemorrhage, and he is not 
strong. I think he has been overtaxing his 
strength of late — working too much and eat- 
ing far too little. He is simply emaciated.” 

“I wonder if he has any people. They 
ought to be told,” said de Clairville. 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 

“As far as I can ascertain, there is no one, 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


m 


the only communications that reach him come 
through a London bank; there is no clue to his 
home in England.” 

They went back into the sick-room. 

De Clairville regarded the unconscious face 
with pity and admiration. 

“Does M. le Cure know?” 

“No — I had no one to send. Kassim and I 
have had our hands full.” 

“The auto is here,” said Pierre, “I had bet- 
ter go and fetch him at once, and I can bring 
anything else you require from Sidi-Mesrour.” 

“And afterwards will you bring my maid 
and some things for the night? I shall want 
Gemma to help me so she had better come,” 
said the Princess. 

“You will want some food,” said the doctor, 
“there is hardly anything in the house. He 
seems to have been living on bread and oranges 
— I’ve seen nothing else eatable here. I’ll 
give you a list of all I am likely to want for 
him.” 

“And please tell Evodia that I shall not 
come back to-night,” said the Princess. 

Pierre started off almost immediately in a 
great cloud of dust. He drove himself, and 
the chauffeur trembled at the speed with which 


428 


PRISONERS' YEARS 


they cut round corners and traversed rough 
by-ways, until they came to the wide Roman 
road that ran straight to Sidi-Mesrour. 

The incident had already caused consider- 
able sensation in Sidi-Mesrour; every detail 
was being discussed by both French and Arabs, 
and in Messaoud’s Cafe Maure there was no 
other topic of conversation. For once the 
games of draughts and ronda were abandoned 
and the Arabs sat about in animated groups 
drinking black coffee and smoking cigarettes, 
and discussing the little tragedy. Probably 
more than one of them knew who was the per- 
petrator of the dastardly deed, and a sullen 
hostility towards the Roumis was apparent in 
their demeanor if a Frenchman addressed 
them. 

Mr. Smith was very well known by sight in 
the village; he often rode in to the Monday 
market, and his figure was also familiar to 
those who attended Mass in the little church on 
Sundays. And though he was very poor, hav- 
ing often not enough to eat, he was most de- 
vout as M. le Cure said, and gave liberally to 
the Church. His servant, Kassim, declared 
that his master lived on the plainest and most 
meager fare. 

De Clairville drove from shop to shop, mak- 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


429 


ing purchases both for the doctor and the Prin- 
cess. Stores of all kinds would be required, 
especially if her sojourn at Ras-el-Ma was at 
all likely to be prolonged. Finally he drove 
to the presbytery and fetched the priest. In 
a couple of hours he was back at the farm, and 
having deposited both priest and purchases, 
went on to the villa to inform his wife of what 
had happened, and to fetch the Princess’s lug- 
gage and maid. 


CHAPTER X 


T he maid had gone to bed ; the doctor was 
resting after his prolonged vigil in an ad- 
joining room whence an occasional snore testi- 
fied to the good use he was making of his op- 
portunities. The Princess sat alone beside the 
sick man. She had undertaken to sit up and 
watch him and call the doctor if any change 
should supervene, but so far Mr. Smith had 
not awakened. On her other side stood a 
little table with a shaded lamp upon it, by the 
dim light of which she could see her patient’s 
face. The windows were wide open, for the 
night was warm and very still; outside could 
be heard the ceaseless songs of the nightin- 
gales. 

From time to time she glanced at the young 
man as her rosary beads slipped noiselessly 
through her fingers, and her lips moved in 
prayer. His face was very tranquil and im- 
mobile. She thought inconsequently what a 
beautiful child he must have been, she won- 
dered if his mother had loved him very dearly. 
Perhaps she was dead now, since he seemed so 

430 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


431 


utterly friendless, for he was the kind of son 
that surely must have gladdened any woman’s 
heart. She knew very little of him ; she knew 
nothing of the reasons for his immuring him- 
self in a place at once forlorn and desolate, 
but all that she had heard of him was 
singularly to his credit. He was devout in the 
practice of his religion, so M. le Cure had in- 
formed her, approaching the Sacraments of 
Penance and Communion with frequency and 
devotion. He lived simply, even austerely ; he 
worked hard ; he gave out of his poverty to the 
Church and to the poor. And now he was 
lying here — the victim of a crime that was 
stupid as well as wicked. There was some- 
thing touching to her about his extreme sol- 
itariness; it appealed to her; she fell to won- 
dering who he could be, where he came from, 
and why, being English, he had not tried his 
fortunes in a British colony, instead of in a 
French one. Was it because he could not face 
his fellow-countrymen? Was his life of pen- 
ance also one of expiation? She took up 
her rosary again, and began to recite it. It 
was a little jeweled rosary, each bead was 
a pearl, and the Crucifix was of gold, as was 
also the medal of the Immaculate Conception. 
Her husband had given it to her on her wed- 


432 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


ding day, the medal had been a later gift 
very shortly before his death. As it slipped 
through her pale fingers the gold was touched 
by the lamp light into a soft radiance. And 
suddenly she became aware that the man had 
opened his eyes, and was regarding her with 
curious attention. 

His eyes were very dark and somber, and 
seemed too large for the thin face. She did 
not know what it was that prevented his face, 
so regularly chiseled, so delicate-looking, from 
being effeminate. He was, she thought, as 
nearly beautiful as a man can be, and yet there 
was nothing at all effeminate about him. 

“Evodia — ” he said, and put his uninjured 
hand out with a gesture of appeal. “Please 
tell Evodia that I should like to see her — to 
explain. This is Curzon Street, is it not?” 

He looked beyond her — not at her, and she 
perceived that he was delirious, the words 
tumbled out swiftly, imperfectly pronounced, 
yet quite distinct. She answered him in her 
pretty broken English, and the sudden bewil- 
dering knowledge that this must be Felix gave 
an added tenderness to her voice and manner. 
It had been almost impossible for her at the 
moment to believe her own ears, when he had 
spoken the name Evodia. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


433 


“You can not see Evodia to-night,” she said; 
“you must keep very quiet. You are ill — you 
have been hurt, you know, and I am looking 
after you. But perhaps to-morrow you shall 
see her.” 

“I forgot” — he said, with a kind of desolate 
bitterness, which showed her through all how 
deeply the iron had entered into his soul — “I 
forgot — it will be no use — she wouldn’t see 
me!” His utterance became more rapid and 
now the words were less distinct but she could 
catch broken scraps here and there. “Oh, 
my darling — why did you send me away so 
soon? If you had only waited — only perhaps 
it is true you didn’t care — I can’t have Mol- 
lingmere now, and I’ve no home to give you. 
Yes — I will go away to-night — I will pray al- 
ways — always Evodia. . . .” His voice sank 
into a whisper. Then a passing gleam of con- 
sciousness returned; he watched the rosary 
slipping through those blanched thin fingers. 

“I don’t know who you are,” he said; “but 
you are saying your rosary, are you not? 
Pray for me. And I want to see a priest for 
I feel like death. Do you know what hap- 
pened? Something hit me and the horse 
bolted home. After that I don’t remember — ” 

His voice trailed off into a weak whisper; 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


he seemed to fall asleep again. It was past 
midnight; the Princess went on praying. 

“Evodia,” came the voice from the bed with 
such suddenness that it startled her. “Are 
you there, my darling? I want to speak to 
you before I go. Yes — I must go with 
Father Antony — he is dying — I can’t leave 
him — I shall be back soon. Never go back to 
Mollingmere? I did love the old place, but 
that is only a little sacrifice, compared to los- 
ing you. I thought you’d stand by me. 
Beloved — she is calling — let me go to her — I 
tell you I can hear her voice! — Evodia — ” 
He tried to move, to raise himself, but the 
Princess put a light detaining hand upon 
him. 

“Don’t stop me,” he went on eagerly; “she 
has never made a sign — she has never called 
me till now — she could never call and I not 
hear — even in my grave. What are you say- 
ing? You think she will come in the morn- 
ing? That is quite impossible.” 

All through the night he babbled on at in- 
tervals, now querulous and irritable, now de- 
spondent and sad, angry and pleading by 
turns. Once he was back at Mollingmere on 
the last evening they had spent together there. 
“Yes — you sang that beautifully. Where 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


435 


thou goest I will go — thy people shall be my 
people — thy God my God. Where thou diest 
I will die — Thy God my God. Yes — he sold 
all that he had, and bought the pearl of great 
price. I sold everything, too. I have the 
pearl — I am not complaining — it was worth it 
— the hunger, the cold — the being alone and 
forgotten.” 

“Try to sleep,” she said very softly. 

He looked at her in surprise, half conscious 
now; her words had aroused him. 

“But I want to die, you know,” he said: 
“I hoped to die when I was ill in Rome before 
I came here — I had fever — and then on the 
boat that brought me from Naples to Tunis — 
it was nearly wrecked. But death — death dis- 
dains a gift — you know the old saying.” He 
looked at her with shining half -amused eyes, 
and for the first time she seemed to see some- 
thing of the real Felix — the Felix as he was 
when he was strong and well, and not almost 
done to death by the assassin’s bullet. The 
Felix whom Evodia had loved, and alas, — sent 
so lightly away! 

“I don’t think you are going to die,” she 
said; “perhaps you will be happier now — per- 
haps God will send Evodia back to you. And 
in any case you can conform to His will, know- 


436 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


ing you are in His hands, and He in His mercy 
knows what is best for each one of us.” 

When the dawn spread pale unfolding 
wings across the sky Felix lay sleeping peace- 
fully. 


CHAPTER XI 


4 4T X T ill you come back with me to-night? 

V V I must start in about an hour. 
I could not come before — it would have been 
imprudent to leave him.” 

Evodia had walked down the road to meet 
the Princess, and was now sitting beside her in 
the car. All around them the serene and 
purple twilight of the south colored the moun- 
tains like great jewels. Tam Gout, the 
Needle Mountain, thrust his amethyst spire 
heavenwards, colored like a fading pansy. 
The air was fragrant with orange blossom. 
Somewhere in the eucalyptus trees a nightin- 
gale was singing its song of surpassing sweet- 
ness. 

Earlier in the day the Princess had sent a 
little note to Evodia, telling her of the identity 
of the mysterious Mr. Smith, and promising 
to come and fetch her as soon as she could. 
And all day Evodia had remained in her room, 
a prey to the most consuming anxiety. 

She shook her head. “I — couldn’t see 

him,” she said sorrowfully. 

437 


438 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


“He has been asking for you,” said Aloisia. 

She looked at the girl with something of 
hardness. What was she made of? Marble? 
—Steel? 

“Please don’t ask me to see him!” she said 
with entreaty in her voice. “I will come with 
you — I want to hear — how he is. But do not 
ask anything else.” 

“He is alone. Though he is better — he is 
not yet out of danger. If he were a beggar 
in the street, you could hardly refuse this act 
of mercy.” 

“Is he very badly hurt?” 

“The shot went through his arm into his 
side. His arm is broken, and he is suffering 
from fever and shock. He bears the pain 
well. Be brave, Evodia, and come with me.” 
There was something of anger in her voice, 
as she said: 

“Did you ever love him at all? Can love 
perish so utterly?” 

“Nothing is changed. What separated us 
then — last year — separates us still.” 

“His Church? I thought you were begin- 
ning to learn a little. His poverty? Poverty 
is never worth balancing.” 

“I will come — if he really wants me,” she 
said with an effort. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


439 


“I am sure he wants you,” said Aloisia 
whose ears still rang with that delirious cry of 
Evodia — Evodia. 

Evodia went up to her room directly they 
arrived at the villa. Her heart yearned over 
Felix, but she felt that she did not dare ap- 
proach him. He should have come back to 
her long ago, if he had wanted to see her. 
He should never have taken her words so 
literally. It had proved to her through these 
months of loneliness and silence that he 
could not have cared. He had accepted his 
dismissal so easily, had shown that he would : 

“Live out the old life and chance the new,” 

without thought of her. If he had cared, he 
would not have vanished so — so utterly. He 
would have written at least once. No — it was 
she who had been faithful through all her un- 
faith, her caprice, her anger, her words that 
he had found unforgivable, she had never been 
able to put his image from her; she had never 
been able to think of any one in his place. 
Words of love on other lips had come to her 
with a shock as of disloyalty. Yes — she had 
loved him with shame, bitterness and regret, 
but the emotion was still love. How deeply it 
could poison existence she was fully aware; 


440 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


she had learned all that during the past few 
months. She had even prayed for death — 
that sleeping, she might never awake. She 
had brought herself to the belief that it was 
Felix’s love which had ultimately been found 
wanting. If he had cared, he would most 
surely have made some sign. She had even 
thought that he must be dead, so silent was 
he. 

And now he was lying very near death, and 
he had called her name. How could she meet 
him? How be certain that he wished to see 
her? If he reproached her she felt she could 
yet bear that better than indifference. She 
heard the Princess calling her — “Are you 
ready, Evodia?” She put on her hat with 
trembling fingers, and tied a dark veil over it. 
She wore a long loose coat over her white 
dress. Sometimes the evening air was treach- 
erous. Outside, the dusk had already fallen 
upon the mountains, but she could see the 
giant spire of Tam Gout, outlined against the 
sky, with a great white star trembling in the 
dark blue canopy just above it. A gossamer 
mist trailed scarf -like along the river banks. 
As they drove down the road she could hear 
the sharp barking of marauding jackals. 

She was very pale, butcher eyes glowed with 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


441 


a strange fire; her hands trembled a little. 
She felt like one going out for the first time 
after a long illness, weak and faint but con- 
tent to breathe the strong pure air. 

“I am going to see Felix” Her thoughts 
repeated these words over and over again, “to 
see Felix” She remembered how they had 
parted, with what bitterness, with what appar- 
ent irrevocability. And now here in Africa 
he was going to be given back to her. It was 
true that she had lost all her prejudices 
against his Church, since she had come in close 
contact with it, had seen its effect upon such 
widely different natures as the Princess, her 
son, and Nicki, but she could not yet see with 
Aloisia, that Felix had done the only possible 
thing in becoming a Catholic. Swiftly across 
her mind there flashed the memory of the 
kneeling Cardinal Pallavicini in the Duomo at 
Genoa — he, who had repented and confessed 
and had not yet received absolution. She re- 
membered how she had hidden her face when 
Keith and Genevieve passed, in the attitude of 
a penitent. 

But if it gave a dying man happiness to see 
her again? Dying? She halted at the word. 
Felix could not die. She felt she could not 
bear to lose him in this way. She gave a little 


442 PRISONERS’ YEARS 

sob, choking it back so quickly that the Prin- 
cess hardly noticed it. 

The car went swiftly along the road that 
runs from Sidi-Mesrour to Bone. Once they 
passed through the glades of the forest dim 
and shadowed, except where the moonlight 
sped a sudden shaft of silver. The trees 
seemed to stretch out arms to welcome her in 
the gloom, beckoning human arms. There 
was one giant olive that seemed in its distor- 
tion to have assumed the shape of an elephant. 
On both sides the tall bush heath showed glim- 
mering pale pyramids of blossom. Even now 
she could dimly discern the gold embroidery 
of those sheets of gorse. There were flowers 
everywhere, and everywhere there was a pene- 
trating sweet odor of honeysuckle like some 
forest incense poured forth. Now the car 
had slipped out of the forest, back into the 
wide Roman road that lay like polished silver 
in the moonlight, and before them, like 
shadowy sentinels, lay outspread the moun- 
tains of the Tell. 

It seemed to Evodia that after traveling 
thus with ever-increasing swiftness for hours 
and hours they came at last to the place where 
Felix lived. She saw the long low house, 
built bungalow fashion, on a strip of rising 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 443 

ground close to the forest. Pale paths ran 
from the garden into the forest glimmering 
with marble. Evodia turned once to look 
back. It was night now, and the moon was 
visible between the trees ; the stars were 
brilliant — the great mountains seemed to be 
straining up to touch them. Far away she 
could see a row of gleaming lights that indi- 
cated the village of Sidi-Mesrour. Nearer 
she could see the lights of the clustered cot- 
tages at Oued Zerga. 

Kassim opened the door enveloped in a long 
gray haick. His eyes were heavy with want 
of sleep. They followed him into a low hall; 
on the right was a door which the Princess 
opened cautiously, disclosing a small, rather 
bare room. 

Felix lay on the wooden bed over which 
hung a Crucifix and a cheap benitier. His 
face was turned from the door, and the 
shadows were very heavy, but Evodia could 
see his hair making a patch of darkness against 
the pillow. Her heart beat suffocatingly; 
she wished she had not come. What after all, 
if the Princess had made a mistake — and he 
did not wish to see her ? 

She came over to the bedside. “Felix — I 
have come, speak to me — I am Evodia.” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


444 

He stirred, as if the words had reached him 
across deep dreams; they were indeed to him 
“such stuff as dreams are made of,” insub- 
stantial echoes of that voice he would never 
hear again. How often had it not come to 
mock him, even as the phantom of her had 
mocked him, an elusive ghost that had Evodia’s 
eyes, and Evodia’s hair — as now it spoke with 
Evodia’s voice — yet would never hear nor 
heed as it passed away swiftly, relentlessly into 
the waiting shadows? 

He moved his head a little, and she saw his 
face for the first time and could have shud- 
dered at the sight — it was so shrunken, so 
pallid, the face almost of a corpse. The eyes 
were immense in their hollow sockets, restless, 
not yet quite free from the eager mad gaze of 
delirium; the lips were shriveled and parched; 
all the youth and beauty of that countenance 
seemed to have been blotted out. 

His appearance awed her. He was going 
to die — what could she say to him? None of 
those tender things she had meant to say 
seemed of any use now. He seemed not to 
need her — not to care. Oh, why had she come? 
She turned piteously to Aloisia. “I don’t 
think he knows me. Tell him,” she said. 

“I have brought Evodia to see you,” said 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


445 


the Princess, coming forward and bending 
over the sick man. “You said last night you 
would like her to come.” 

Again he moved, and this time his eyes 
sought Evodia’s with the same incredulous 
non-comprehending gaze. 

“She has often come before,” he said quietly, 
“it is strange you should be able to see her too. 
But she always vanishes — directly I try to 
speak to her.” 

Evodia touched his hand. 

“I shall not vanish this time, Felix,” she as- 
sured him; “I am really here — I have come to 
help nurse you.” 

Her voice was quietly steady ; she controlled 
it with an effort. Felix put out his uninjured 
hand. “I should like you to stay with me un- 
til — ” he stopped and looked at her. 

No word of love or welcome; he did not 
even utter her name. Was love dead in his 
heart? — had she killed it when she sent him 
away? 

Once during the long night that followed, 
he opened his eyes and spoke. 

“So you are still there? I am afraid you 
will be very tired.” 

“I am not tired,” she said. 

When the day came he was lying peacefully 


446 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


asleep. The doctor felt his pulse. He 
nodded approval. So far he was holding his 
own; there was hope. Evodia sitting there 
had not taken her hand away from his; it was 
cramped and cold. 

The Princess touched her. “Come,” she 
said, “he is sleeping — he won’t miss you. 
Gemma has made some hot coffee.” 

Evodia rose stiffly, and followed her out of 
the room into the little salon where the steam- 
ing coffee was awaiting them. “He is going 
to live?” she said in a cold slow voice. 

“Indeed, I think so.” 

“Do you think my coming has made any 
difference?” 

“You saw how he slept.” 

“I felt he didn’t want me,” she said with 
a half-suppressed sob. 

“You must remember always, he has gone 
through a great deal. But when he is better, 
you will see how much he needs you. Oh, 
Evodia, has he had nothing to forgive, too, in 
all these months of your separation?” 

Evodia looked at her with heavy eyes. “He 
has had everything to forgive,” she said. “I 
know now how worthless I am — unworthy of 
him, of his love — of the love God put into 
our hearts.” 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


447 


“Yes — we should never despise His gifts. 
And of all His human gifts to us love is per- 
haps one of the most divine — the one we should 
fear most to disdain.” 

She put coffee and food before Evodia. 
She drank the coffee and it seemed to revive 
her, she could eat nothing. She was thor- 
oughly exhausted with fatigue and emotion. 
Aloisia, who was accustomed to night vigils 
and to treating her delicate body harshly, 
showed no sign of fatigue. Her step was 
firm, her eye bright. She said to Evodia: 

“You had better lie down and sleep for a 
few hours. He won’t want you yet — that 
sleep will last for some hours, and it might 
excite him to see you too soon after he awakes. 
But come outside for a moment first — the 
fresh air will revive you.” 

( 


CHAPTER XII 


T hey went out on to the garden terrace 
bathed now by the early sunlight which 
touched the stone moldings, and flower-pots 
filled with glowing geraniums, to a soft mel- 
low gold. The air from the mountains was 
fresh and invigorating, pure and fragrant as 
if it had come across miles of sweet-scented 
flower-filled fields and vineyards. Tam Gout, 
the Needle Mountain, thrust its blue spire 
heavenwards and the long outline of Kef 
Serrak, the Hill of the Robber’s Cave, glowed 
beneath the radiance of that incomparable 
dawn against a sky swept clear of cloud. 

The roses and honeysuckle, the orange and 
citron blossom drenched the air with their 
fragrant incense. A tall aloe raised its 
slender spire of scented creamy blossom. The 
hillsides were clothed with the gold of flower- 
ing gorse. The broken marble of the forest 
paths flashed like diamonds in the sunlight. 
It was a world of hope, not of despair; of life 
not of death. The light soft caressing wind 

448 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


449 


touched Evodia’s pale face, bringing color to 
her cheeks. 

In the cup of the plain lay the white village 
of Sidi-Mesrour, and in the clear atmosphere 
its clustered red roofs and the slander spire 
of the church could be seen. The groups of 
sharp cypresses guarding the French cemetery 
made a dark blot against the sky. Suddenly 
with sharp incisive strokes that reached them 
quite distinctly they heard the Angelus sound- 
ing from the church of Sidi-Mesrour. Aloisia 
crossed herself and said the prayers aloud. 
The peace of that quiet scene, so far removed 
from human habitation, the words of the 
prayer uttered in that morning stillness, com- 
municated a rare sense of complete serenity 
to Evodia. A passion of happiness filled her 
heart. Felix was near her — a tortured, 
wounded, suffering Felix, but still the one she 
loved before all the world. The prayer 
sounded to her like a thanksgiving. And in 
her soul there came a new thing to birth — the 
tiny seed of Faith — that supernatural gift of 
God. 

“Some day,” she said, “you will teach me 
to pray — as you pray.” She put her hand 
with a childish gesture into Aloisia’s. 

“I am ready to teach you, whenever you ask 


450 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


me,” said the Princess, and she put her arm 
round the girl and kissed her. They went in- 
doors together and Evodia, in obedience to 
her wish, lay down in a darkened room and 
slept. 

The Princess went back to Felix and found 
him still asleep and fairly tranquil. He 
moaned a little at intervals but the wrecked 
human body was asserting its claim to live. 
He was young and his constitution was strong 
though superficially weakened by severe pri- 
vation. The wound was not mortal, and the 
doctor had almost ceased to fear that blood- 
poisoning might supervene. He had extracted 
the bullet the first day, and was satisfied with 
the manner in which the patient had borne the 
operation. 

The window was open, and the soft warm 
airs of the May morning came into the room, 
fragrant and refreshing. Roses bloomed in 
profusion round the casement, and outside the 
Princess could see the dull purple mist of a 
group of blossoming Judas-trees. She could 
see, too, the path that led from garden to 
forest sparkling in the sunlight, its fragments 
of white marble gleaming like the precious 
stones of some fairy cave of Arabian lore. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


451 


And over all hung the superb, sapphire-blue 
dome of the African sky. 

The hours passed. Later in the morning 
the priest from Sidi-Mesrour returned — a tall, 
fair, delicate-looking man with straw-colored 
hair and beard. He told the Princess that 
Felix had driven through the village on his 
way to Clementville, the day he had been shot, 
and had made his confession and attended the 
early Mass in the little church. He was very 
devout, he said, in the practice of his religion. 
Was it then true, that England was once more 
returning to the Faith? He had been told 
there were many conversions now in England, 
and the number of missions was rapidly in- 
creasing ; doubtless this grace had been 
bestowed upon a country which had so gener- 
ously received and welcomed the exiled re- 
ligious orders of France. He could tell her 
very little about Felix, but he liked the quiet 
Englishman, who lived such a solitary life on 
the edge of the forest. He was poor, but he 
always gave to charities, and no doubt deprived 
himself of the necessaries of life. He was con- 
tented with his lot and the Arabs liked and 
respected him; they were indeed furious at the 
dastardly attempt to rob and murder him, and 
had vowed vengeance against those who had 


452 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


attacked him. It was said that the miscreants 
had fled to the hills beyond Bone. 

He paid Felix a short visit when he awoke, 
and then returned to Sidi-Mesrour. The 
Princess went back to her post by the sick 
man’s side. She thought he had again fallen 
asleep when suddenly he addressed her : 

“Is it true that Miss Essex was here last 
night?” he said in a weak hesitating voice. “I 
have had — such curious visions since my illness 
that I can hardly distinguish — ” 

“She is here,” said the Princess; “I have 
made her lie down, but I will call her directly.” 

She fetched Evodia and then went out of 
the room, leaving them together. 

“I want to thank you,” he said. 

She felt that she could hardly bear that his 
eyes should rest upon her so coldly, so indiffer- 
ently. 

“To thank me?” she said. 

“For coming.” 

“I was — glad to be able to come,” she said. 

“It is all a mystery to me,” he said. “I 
did not know of course that you had left 
England. Tell me why you are here in 
Africa?” 

She told him as briefly as she could of their 
stay in Genoa and of her meeting with the 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


453 


Princess; then of their joining the de Clair- 
villes for the winter at the Villa Saida. 

“I know de Clairville,” he said ; “he has been 
kind enough to ask me to his house. Shall 
you stay there long?” 

Some impulse urged her to answer: “I 
think I shall leave for England very soon 
now.” 

He closed his eyes ; evidently he had no wish 
to talk. They seemed more arbitrarily di- 
vided now than ever before, Evodia thought. 
She felt that he needed her no more. Though 
they were so near each other, they seemed as 
worlds apart. It was she who had built the 
barrier. She felt shamed and humbled at the 
thought that she had been ready and willing 
to marry him now — and he did not care for 
her any more — had no wish to make her his 
wife. 

“Felix,” she said, hesitating a little as she 
uttered his name ; “Felix, when you are better 
you must come to the Villa Saida — they will 
all take great care of you. And I shall not be 
there.” 

He did not answer. 

Two days later the crisis had passed and the 
doctor pronounced him to be out of danger; 


454 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


the wound was healing very satisfactorily and 
he only needed careful nursing and complete 
quiet and freedom from anxiety and worry. 
The Princess and Evodia returned to the villa 
for a few hours. Aloisia was to go back to 
Ras-el-Ma as soon as possible, as she dared 
not leave her patient for more than a few hours, 
but Evodia was resolved to begin her prepara- 
tions for the journey at once. 

“You were mistaken,” she said to the Prin- 
cess; “he does not care for me any more. I 
have killed his love. You thought I might 
marry him out of pity, did you not ? But you 
see it is unnecessary. He doesn’t want to 
marry me.” 

“Evodia — are you sure — are you sure?” 

“Perfectly sure.” 

She went to the window and looked out at 
the beautiful African hills. 

“I shall be sorry to leave you — and Nicolette 
— and the Villa Saida,” she said. 

“You know, Pierre is thinking of asking 
Felix to live here when he goes, and look after 
the property while he is away ? The vineyards 
are very extensive and valuable and he will be 
within easy reach of Batna, where his work 
lies, if he has a motor.” 

“It is very kind of Pierre,” said Evodia. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


455 


“I wish I could have thought of you living 
here in this quiet place — you could have had 
such a beautiful ordered life — with Felix.” 

“Do not dream,” said Evodia, with a laugh 
that was half a sob. “But I am going to tell 
you one thing. I am going to be a Catholic. 
I promised that I would that day when — when 
we stood out in the garden at Ras-el-Ma, and 
you said the Angelus — if God would only let 
him live. You’ve done that for me. I know 
now that I have the faith — it has been coming 
to me ever since I was with you at Genoa. I 
did fight against it — but it was of no use. I 
seemed to hear pursuing feet like the man in 
the ‘Hound of Heaven’ — I kept on thinking 
of that, and it seemed to me as if God some- 
times would capture a soul however unwilling 
it might be — however desperately it might re- 
sist Him. There won’t be time for you to in- 
struct me — I can’t hurry over things. But 
when I go home I shall learn and then perhaps 
you will let me come back to Genoa and stay 
a little while with you.” 

“You will always be welcome,” said Aloisia 
softly. “But there is the gong — we must go 
in to luncheon.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


P ierre was late for breakfast; he entered 
the dining-room when the meal was half 
over. “I have the most surprising news for 
you all,” he cried, “Felix has had a telegram 
from his lawyer in London, telling him of his 
grandfather’s death — the old man it seems had 
just flown into a terrible rage with his second 
grandson, whom he had made heir to all his 
property. He tore up the will in his pres- 
ence, sent immediately for his lawyer, and made 
a new one, leaving everything to Felix. It 
was hardly signed when the old man fell back 
unconscious in his chair, and he died the same 
night. The message came this morning and 
was given to me just as I was leaving Sidi- 
Mesrour for Ras-el-Ma. Imagine such a turn 
of the wheel of fate! I have sent a telegram 
saying how ill the poor boy is — how he may 
yet not recover — he certainly cannot bear the 
shock yet, and the doctor says I am to keep 
all knowledge of this from him for the pres- 
ent.” 

Evodia sat like a stone image. She had al- 

456 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 457 

ways begged the Princess not to tell the de 
Clairvilles that Felix was the fiance whom she 
had sent away, but Nicki had guessed some- 
thing of the sort, and was delighted to have 
such a charming romance enacted almost be- 
neath her roof. One by one the dividing bar- 
riers were being swept aside, capriciously al- 
most, Evodia thought. There remained only 
the one she had made with her own hands and 
this had permanently parted her from Felix, 
destroying his love, as she deserved indeed it 
should be destroyed. He must have seen in 
her only a cold and worldly woman, who cared 
passionately for his possessions, and nothing 
for himself. He had taken her image out of 
his heart, as he prayed in her presence might 
happen. He had taught himself to love her 
no more. She was powerless. She could only 
go away humbled and ashamed, to hide her bit- 
ter grief. He must never know of her inten- 
tion to become a Catholic. It would mean to 
him only another effort to bring him back to 
her. Aloisia guessed something of the strug- 
gle that was disturbing her so terribly. 

“I shall not let you go back to London now,” 
she said, when breakfast was at an end, and 
they were alone together. “You must wait 
here till Felix is convalescent — you need not 


458 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


see him again, unless you wish. And then we 
will return to Genoa together. I cannot let 
any one else instruct you — you must be my 
god-daughter, and you shall be received in my 
own little chapel.” 

“Yes — I will do that, thank you,” she said 
gratefully; “only I cannot see Felix again, un- 
less he asks for me, and he will never do that!” 

“It would make it very difficult for you to 
go to London just now,” said the Princess; 
“I should like you to be with me, for it will be 
very solitary at Albaro till Isidoro returns. So 
you see it is better for both of us.” 

Always Evodia felt that she should look 
back with gratitude upon the months spent at 
the Villa Saida. It had been such a peaceful 
interlude of golden sunshine. And she had 
learned to pray. When, she did not quite 
know, but it had come to her suddenly. Was 
it in the cool airs of the awakening day when 
the Princess had stood with her on the garden 
terrace at Ras-el-Ma, while they listened to the 
far-off bell sounding the Angelus, and her 
friend had crossed herself and prayed aloud 
to the Mother of God? She knew that she 
could never hear the Ave Maria bell sounding 
its soft chime again, without thinking of that 
scene in the mountains after the long night of 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


459 


cruel anxiety and pain. She had vowed then, 
if Felix recovered, that she would lose no time 
in signifying her deep gratitude by humbly 
entreating to be received into that Church, for 
which he had so willingly renounced all that he 
had possessed. It was over, and she regretted 
that time of tranquillity, but she saw that her 
only course was to go away. The Princess 
was right — it would be difficult for her to re- 
turn to London, to go back now to the old 
life in her aunt’s house, and she had gladly 
acquiesced in her suggestion that they should 
return to Genoa together. There she could 
be received quietly into the Church and, once 
a Catholic, it would be easier to begin life on 
a new footing. Already she began to feel 
something of that wonderful renaissance of 
soul which the convert must inevitably taste. 
If in the end, Lady Beaufoy needed her, and 
she had to return to Curzon Street, she thought 
she would have strength to face the position, 
even though she dreaded the idea of Axel’s in- 
quisitorial eye, of his cynical questioning. 
They would hear, too (who sooner than Axel, 
the gossip?), that Felix was to be reinstated at 
Mollingmere ; they would imagine that her con- 
version was a ruse to win him back. And in her 
heart she knew that she deserved it all for her 


460 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


base desertion of Felix in the hour of his need. 

“It need not be for a long time yet,” she 
thought; “if Aunt Susan wants to do a cure this 
year I could meet her abroad. It wouldn’t 
be half so difficult without Milly and Sophy 
there to ask questions !” 

Yet — why had he ceased to care for her? 
That was the hardest part of it all. She felt 
humiliated when she thought of his coldness 
and indifference. 


CHAPTER XIV 


T he blue mists hung delicately like some 
sky-flung web of palest turquoise over 
the waters of Lac Fetzara as the train passed 
on its way to Bone. Groves of wild oleander 
flushed with blossom, growing carpets of crim- 
son thistles and tares, golden spaces filled with 
marigolds and mullein, with here and there a 
patch of blue thistles, covered the wide prairie. 
The corn stood already high in the plain and 
the vineyards were vividly green. The ex- 
quisite embroidery of the fields made a pageant 
of delicious color, soft and varied. 

Evodia stood alone in the little balcony at 
the end of the train. She had watched Sidi- 
Mesrour, with its clustered creamy white 
houses with their red roofs and gray shutters, 
fade from view. She had seen Tam Gout’s 
sharp spire melt into the blue of the distance. 
She had caught one white glimpse of the low 
long bungalow at Ras-el-Ma, which Felix was 
to leave to-day. In a few hours he was ex- 
pected to arrive at the Villa Saida to complete 
his convalescence under Nicolette’s watchful 

461 


462 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


care. Evodia watched the scene shifting rap- 
idly, many-hued as a kaleidoscope. She was 
on her way to Genoa. When she thought of 
all that awaited her there, her heart thrilled 
a little. She was no longer sad. A strange 
peace had come over her. She had resolved 
not to grieve too much over the fact that Felix 
had ceased to love her. Like the kneeling car- 
dinal she would wait if need be through long 
years, for forgiveness; she might hope in the 
hereafter to claim his forgiveness though never 
his love. She had deliberately thrown it away 
when he was poor and outcast; she did not 
merit it now that he was once more rich and 
prosperous. These thoughts were in her mind 
as she looked out at the beautiful African 
fields, blossoming in all their June riot of 
scent and gorgeous color. She could see the 
great shapes of cork and olive with their silver 
and gray-green foliage, the glimmer of the 
blue lake with the white grebes and gulls fly- 
ing lazily above it in the warm blue stillness 
of the air. Felix was well again. He had 
made a complete recovery, though he still wore 
his arm in a sling, and was unable to use it. 
Through the past few weeks, the Princess had 
devoted herself to him with assiduous care. 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


463 


But he had never asked for Evodia; he had 
never mentioned her name. Whenever the 
Princess had returned to the villa, she had 
read the same question in the girl’s eyes. 
Whatever she had done in the past, she was 
suffering punishment now of no light kind. 

All those last days the sirocco had been 
blowing like the fierce hot breath of some evil 
dragon. It had been very hot with a dry, sullen 
heat, almost savage in its intensity. Evodia 
had felt it touch her face as if with a flame 
that stung; like many women she was made 
nervous and feverish by it. It seemed to have 
come straight from the desert — from those 
burning, shadeless wastes of the Sahara, where 
for so many months in the year the sun rules, 
a despotic monarch wielding an almost terrify- 
ing sway. 

Now the wind had dropped and there was 
a hint of salt freshness in the air, blown lightly 
from the Mediterranean. The leaves of the 
forest scarcely stirred, but the atmosphere was 
no longer oppressive, and, as evening ap- 
proached, a delicious wind crept up from the 
sea. 

Their boat was due to leave at half past 
eleven that night, and after dining at the hotel, 


464 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


they went on board to make all their prepara- 
tions before starting. Isidoro was not return- 
ing yet; he had prolonged his journey, and 
meant to come back by way of Tunis. He 
was well, and seemed in good spirits, so his 
mother hoped he was forgetting his disappoint- 
ment a little. 

The harbor lay like a sheet of glass, pale 
silver in the flooding moonlight. Against it 
the black hull of the ship looked like ebony, 
and the mast and rigging were delicately 
etched against a sky of luminous silver. All 
around the African mountains reared their 
splendid shapes, and the red light of the Phare 
flashed on the distant Cap de Garde. The 
white town, the villas nestling among the vine- 
yards, looked as if they had been wrought of 
palest ivory. 

Hortense was arranging the little cabin un- 
der Evodia’s supervision, when a message was 
brought down to say, that some one wished to 
speak to “Mademoiselle Essex.” 

She went up on deck, wondering who it 
could be at such a late hour. Then she saw 
standing in front of her a tall figure, very thin 
now, and wearing his left arm in a sling. For 
a moment she thought she must be dreaming, 
but the hand that gripped hers was a human 


465 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 

hand, and the voice that spoke her name was 
dear and familiar. 

“Felix,” she said, “why have you come? It 
was very imprudent of you after your long ill- 
ness. You are not fit to make such a journey. 
How did you come?” 

“Not by train — I was too late,” he con- 
fessed ; “but de Clairville lent me his car. Why 
did you run away from me like that? Why 
did you not wait to see me? I might have 
missed you altogether!” 

“You came on — at once?” she asked incred- 
ulously. 

“As soon as I could. I suppose I was at 
the villa about half an hour, as Madame de 
Clairville insisted upon my eating some food 
before I started.” 

“Didn’t it hurt you?” She looked at his 
bandaged arm. 

Felix made a wry face. “It shook me up a 
little. You see I’ve been laid up nearly a 
month, and one gets a bit out of condition.” 

Evodia was silent. Why had he come? 
Across the shadows she could see his eyes fixed 
upon her ; they seemed to hold an adoring ten- 
derness. 

“Evodia,” he said, “why did you never come 
back and see me after that night when I was 


466 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


supposed to be dying? The Princess came 
every day — and I longed to ask her — but I was 
afraid — I was afraid to kill the hope you 
had put into my heart by coming that one 
time !” 

“I thought you did not want me. I knew 
you didn’t care for me any more. So I stayed 
away. If you had asked for me I should have 
come.” 

With his uninjured hand he took her unre- 
sistingly to the other end of the deck. 

“Is that true?” he said. 

“It is quite true.” 

“You believed I didn’t care?” 

The wind of June came softly, fragrantly, 
touching their faces like a caress. F ar off they 
could see the lights shining on those purple 
guarding mountains. 

“My dear — my dear,” he said brokenly, “I 
have done nothing else but care all these long 
months of our separation, which I believed to 
be permanent and final. You are not one to 
be easily — forgotten. And I had so little hope 
of ever seeing you again! When you came 
that night at Ras-el-Ma and then never again, 
I told myself, she has done this out of her 
beautiful compassion and pity — she will not 
come back lest by her coming she should put 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


467 


new hope into my heart . But for you to think 
I had forgotten! — Evodia speak to me. Say 
you will be my wife.” 

“Oh, Felix, I cannot! People will say it is 
because you have got Mollingmere, and are 
rich again!” 

“What does it matter? When you came to 
Ras-el-Ma I wasn’t rich — I hadn’t got Mol- 
lingmere. And you came — I can believe it 
now — because like myself you had been unable 
to forget — to unlearn.” 

“I hadn’t forgotten — and I hadn’t un- 
learned,” she said. “I had been very unhappy 
all the time. I thought I had destroyed 
your love. It was all terrible after you 
went away.” 

She shivered, but he drew her closely to him 
and kissed her. 

“And I came to Ras-el-Ma because they 
thought you were going to die — and I hoped 
you would forgive me. Oh, Felix, you pun- 
ished me then by sending me away without a 
single kind word!” 

“I wasn’t responsible — I was too ill, and I 
seriously never dreamt you were not coming 
back. And Evodia, don’t talk of forgiveness 
— there was never anything to forgive.” 

He waited a moment. “Do you know I’ve 


468 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


already made all the plans for buying Ras-el- 
Ma — the house and all that bit of the forest — 
because it was there you came back to me, and 
I couldn’t bear not to possess a place that held 
that memory. We can always spend part of 
the winter and spring there when the weather 
is bad at Mollingmere. Keith can live in the old 
place while we are away — he has always cared 
much more for the hunting and shooting than 
I have. Dear old Keith — he has been a 
brick over this business, and told me he should 
have hated to step into my shoes. I am 
glad my grandfather forgave me before he 
died.” 

“There is the Princess,” said Evodia. She 
rose to her feet and went towards her. “Felix 
has come,” she said in a low happy voice; 
“Pierre sent him in the auto.” 

The Princess had no need to ask questions, 
when she saw the soft glow of happiness illu- 
mining the girl’s face. 

“How wrong of you to come such a jour- 
ney! It was this foolish child’s fault, and she 
has only herself to blame if you get ill again. 
She was determined to run away from you, and 
I couldn’t stop her. I’m taking her home with 
me to Genoa.” 

“I shall follow you as soon as I can settle 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


469 


things up out here,” said Felix; “take care of 
Evodia, please, till then. We could be mar- 
ried quite soon in Genoa, couldn’t we?” he 
added appealingly. 

“You must remember you are marrying my 
god-daughter, and I shall not allow it to take 
place until she has been received,” said the 
Princess, smiling. 

“Evodia,” he said, “you did not tell me.” 

“I haven’t had time,” she said shyly. 

Felix could not speak. His cup of joy 
seemed too full, it held indeed good measure, 
pressed down and running over. The long 
months of poverty and loneliness and failure 
seemed to be blotted out. 

“Listen to this,” said Axel Maltravers, tak- 
ing up the Morning Post one fine day towards 
the end of October. “Sir Felix and Lady 
Scaife have arrived at Mollingmere Park, Sus- 
sex, from Ras-el-Ma, Algeria. That, if I re- 
member rightly, is the very outlandish place 
where they spent their honeymoon. How very 
clever Evodia is! She has played fast and 
loose with Felix to good purpose. And what 
is so wonderfully to her credit, is that judging 
from his letters to you, dear belle-mere” — he 
turned mockingly to Lady Beaufoy, who was 


m PRISONERS' YEARS 

listening attentively — “he still believes in her 
entirely.” 

“You are wrong, Axel,” said Sophy, 
calmly. “I know Evodia better than you do, 
and I am quite sure she always cared for him. 
She was wretched from the first moment she 
sent him away.” 

“He is delighted, of course, that she has be- 
come a Roman Catholic,” said Lady Beaufoy, 
with a slight emphasis on the word Roman; 
“it would have distressed poor Clement very 
much if he had lived to know it. There has 
never been anything of the kind in our family 
before, and he, in particular had a great horror 
of priests. But I could see in Genoa that 
Aloisia, who is quite mad on the subject, was 
determined to capture Evodia, and as she was 
not my own daughter I did not attempt to pre- 
vent it. Besides, I thought that perhaps Isi- 
doro— ” 

“Felix couldn’t very well back out when she 
had changed her religion,” said Axel; “I can 
only repeat that I consider Evodia is a very 
remarkable woman — full of resource.” 

But Sophy came across the room and put a 
light hand on her husband’s shoulder. 

“Oh, you don’t really mean all that nonsense. 
Axel!” she said softly; “just think how happy 


PRISONERS’ YEARS 


471 


they must be after such a long parting and 
separation. I’m so very glad! I hope they 
will be ever so happy to make up for all they 
have gone through.” 


THE END 


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